


Flame

by esama



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Animal Death, Dragons, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War, Unhappy Ending, War, War Veteran Newt Scamander, War Veteran Percival Graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-13 05:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9108517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: Newt isn't very well suited for war and Graves isn't very well suited for peace.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed,

Newt stares at his hands silently, marvelling how blurry they seem. His face is wet, sweat and tears and probably blood mingling – he has a cut on his forehead he probably should get looked at but… but…

His hands shake and he squeezes them into fists. There's grime under his fingernails, it looks red – it probably is red, but he can't – he can't tell for sure, everything is wavering a little. He can't breathe. His throat hurts, everything aches and yet, and yet… he can't feel anything. Or maybe he feels so much, that it's tipping over to the real of _too much_ and soon he'll go numb.

He wishes he'll go numb.

"Well, you look like you need a drink."

Newt looks up, and comes face to face with a bottle of Dragon Fire, the label water stained and peeling off but still recognizable. He doesn't know the man holding it, but he can recognise the uniform well enough to categorise him as _ally_. Which, at this point, is good enough.

"T-thank you," Newt mumbles through numb lips and then, grateful for the fact that the cork is already off, he throws his head back and drinks. It burns terribly – he has wounds in his mouth, he's bitten the inside of his lips again and they string – but it's a welcome feeling. It aches in his throat and makes his chest radiate with heat and that too is welcome.

Newt lets out a stuttering breath of hot smoke and then hands the shaking bottle back, looking at the man who'd given it. "American?"

"Now what gave that away?" the man asks with a wry, black sort of amusement and then falls to sit beside him without further ceremony. He looks pristine in his coat, his hair brushed back and neatly short at the sides. Newt knows his haircut is nowhere near as neat – and he hasn't seen his razor in weeks. He can't even recall the last time he bothered to cast a cleaning charm on his clothes. He probably looks just as bad as he feels if not worse and sitting beside this pristine man makes him feel every inch of grime on his skin.

He wonders idly which one of them feels more out of place here.

"Not my favourite spirits," the man muses, examining the bottle in his hand. "Bit too warm for my tastes – and I prefer something with an edge."

Newt arches his eyebrows tiredly. "I'd be happy to keep it if you don't care for it," he mumbles. Maybe if he drank it all he'd stop feeling so hollow. Maybe, if he drank it all… he could sleep that night.

The man smiles and takes a drink – a quick sip, that for a moment leaves newt staring at the column of his throat. He's clean shaven even there and there's a hint of cologne in the air. He's… so clean.

"You're one of the new arrivals, aren't you?" Newt asks and he's not sure if he's jealous or pitying.

"Depends on your definition of _new_ ," the man says, peering at the bottle label. "It's not my first bout here, but true enough – I've been off the field for a couple of months. Had to get some training done state side."

"Right," Newt answers, taking in the neat clothes, the clean shirt peaking past the coat collar – the collar pins. They look valuable.

"You don't believe me," the man says and smiles.

Newt looks away. "I don't care enough to decide whether I do or don't," he says and he really doesn't. Having the man there, so nice and neat, was a awkward reminder of the world outside, though. He wasn't sure he appreciated it.

The American eyes him for a moment and then holds out his hand. Even his nails are clean. "Percival Graves."

Newt takes the hand in his own, and tries to muster up the strength to match the man's firm grip. His fingers look dark against the other man's pale skin, dark and filthy. "Newt," he says.

"Well, Newt," the says. "Are you going to turn your wand onto yourself in the night?"

"Excuse me?" Newt asks, and finally looks at the man's face. Graves arches his dark eyebrows at him, bleakly amused.

"You got the look. And also, that's the Hippogriff Core insignia," the man says, motioning at the patch on the shoulder of Newt's jacket with the whiskey bottle. "The Twenty-Thirds, right? Forward attack position. I hear you guys got slaughtered."

Newt stares at him, speechless.

The man hands him the bottle with a knowing look. "I can do the same as everyone else and pussyfoot around it if you like, but I doubt that will do shit for you in the long run. Drink up, Newt."

Newt drinks, three deep gulps that give him the time to get his thoughts in order and burn away some of the horrified outrage and black misery. "You, sir, are a bit of a git," he says with a cough of smoke once he's done.

"A complete bastard, most people would say," the man says and smiles at him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Newt shakes his head. "Not much to say. We flew, we got spotted, we fell," he mutters and eyes the bottle. "Nine Hippogriffs and eight wizards. Gone in blink of an eye."

Graves hums low in his throat, watching him. "And you?"

Newt doesn't say anything. He'd disapparated out just before he hit the ground. Benefit of having a famous duellist for a brother – he has quite bit of experience with battle apparition. "They really need to start teaching apparition in schools," he murmurs. "It should be a required course."

"…ah," Graves says and folds his arms. "I agree with you there."

Newt nods and takes another sip of the whiskey before handing the bottle back. "Where are you stationed?"

"Nowhere yet," the man says and leans back a little. "From what I hear they're planning for a push, take back the river and the tower. We'll probably be taking part in that, once they got the plans cleared out."

Newt frowns a little at that – not at the words but at the delivery. It's… vaguely familiar. The oh so casual mention, the slight pride it's being spoken with and of course the disregard of sharing of what should by all rights be fairly sensitive information. He'd seen Theseus talk exactly like that, when he was carefully trying to plant information in the right ear.

Newt glances at Graves and then the camp. Well he was sitting apart from everyone and his earlier ruminations might look like silent observation. And he was… the only survivor of what was basically a massacre – and that was never not slightest bit suspicious.

"Right," Newt says and narrows his eyes a little, wondering what to do with the knowledge that this man thought he might be a spy.

"What about you?" Graves asks. "Have you been re-assigned yet?"

"Not yet," Newt answers vaguely and looks down at his hands, the blood under his fingernails. Mostly it wasn't his. It was his mount's. She'd been dead before she hit the ground - before he'd disapparated out and left her body and his fellow cavalrymen to their fates.

He doesn't think he can stomach another mount. Honestly, he isn't sure he can stomach another battle. What he wants to do the most is get up and just… walk away. Turn his back to this madness and just walk away, far away, to someplace with no people and no guns and no spell fire… and no dead birds.

Taking a breath Newt wipes a hand over his eyes and cheeks, probably only managing to make his face dirtier. His hands are still shaking. Maybe they will always shake now.

"You know what," Graves says and hands him the bottle. "You can have the rest of this."

"Sure?" Newt asks, even as he takes it. It's probably the only bottle of whiskey out of the officer's tent, and it's not as if he would turn something like it down.

"You can toast me good luck and long life," Graves says with a mirthless laugh and stands up. "I'll see you around, Newt."

Newt watches the American walk away, frowning a little as the man makes his way through the camp. Well, it wasn't exactly surprise. Newt had never been that good a company, and he's even less so now. Right now… he's a miserable wretch.

Not exactly unusual for him though, that.

Shaking his head, Newt lifts the bottle. "Good luck and long life, Percival Graves," he murmurs – but he drinks for the Hippogriffs.

* * *

 

Graves got off the Thestral with as much dignity as he could, straightening his coat as soon as his feet touched the ground. The beast scoffed at him and threw it's head back, neighing in that awful way Thestrals did – like their vocal chords were shredded.

"Yes, yes, you ugly brute – I'll get you something to eat," he muttered to it and then quickly decided against petting the damn thing when it bared it's skeletal teeth at him. "Well, if you want to be like that, I can just… not."

"Lieutenant Graves, sir?"

Running a hand through his hair, Graves looked up. The rest of the company were only landing now, but there were already people coming out of the camp to greet them. "Are you Lieutenant Graves?" one of them asks, a British man judging by the accent, peering at his insignias.

"Lieutenant Percival Graves of MACUSA's Eighty-one-Fourths Cavalry Company," Graves says and throws a salute along with it just for appearances. The man was young, probably new – those liked very much to be saluted and it never hurt to start on a good foot with the allied troops.

"Welcome to Camp Iron Gut sir," the young soldier says, quickly saluting as well. "Sir, they're waiting for you in the officer's tent."

Graves blinks at him and then frowns. "My Thestral needs looking after," he says slowly.

It's obvious the young man can't see the beast, his eyes sliding over it blindly. "Ah, um…" the young soldier fidgets, now embarrassed.

The war would fix that, Graves thinks grimly and shakes his head. "Either go get someone who's been here a little longer, or show me to the stables," he says, trying to make it as neutral as he can.

The young Brit still blushes, humiliated. "Yes, sir," he says, looks around wildly and then motions. "The stables are over here."

Graves nods, glancing back at his company. The others are landing now, wrangling their exhausted and irritated beasts as they do. His company, the Eighty-one-Fourths, is an complete Thestral Company – and to fit the image, they'd even been assigned black uniforms. It had been originally considered a tactical advantage originally, to use creatures that can only be seen under special circumstances… a sort of stealth company.

Problem is, the special circumstances tended to be every day occurrences in war zones and in the end, there isn't that much of an advantage to the Thestrals over any other flying mounts – aside from the fact that due to their skeletal structure they took less feeding than Hippogriffs or even Pegasi.

Shaking his head, Graves turns his attention to the task at hand – and then there's a shadow over head. The beast at his side recoils and cries out and Graves can just barely rein the creature in before he looks up.

It's a dragon coming, to a land.

It isn't the first time Graves has seen dragons. Every nation with a preserve had tried it, one time or another – to either breed or train or tame or just down right abuse the beasts into compliance to turn them into the Cavalry Of Tomorrow or whatever else the politicians were calling it now. Every time there was a major conflict someone new came up with it, with new justifications for the expenditure and time wasted.

These days, the reason was "…but what about those hellish Nomaj flying machines". Which, granted, was a very valid concern – it had even prompted the building of a whole new dragon preserve in New York where they were doing their damnest to breed a meek dragons. The last Graves heard, a Dragon Tamer had been killed in a unfortunate accident that "was in no way caused by the dragons".

Graves had seen the "accident site". It was rather scorch marked.

Still, the hope lives – not only in politicians but also in the minds of just about everyone who had never came into close contact with the beasts. The Camp Iron Gut is another place where they were to make ludicrous dreams true – and dragons tame.

"That's Kirmizi, sir," the young soldier at Graves' side says and he sounds a little awed. He really must be new to the Camp. "One of our younger males."

"They just let it fly around freely?" Graves asks with a worried scowl, watching it. It's one of the Turkish Ironbellies, judging by the armoured scales covered it's torso and running down it's body – they really do look like iron, they even have what look like streaks of rust in their edges, like armour left without maintenance too long. It's bigger than the dragons they work in back in New York – one of the larger breeds, he dare say.

"No, never, sir," the soldier says and points, his eyes shining. "Never without a rider."

Graves stares. Now that he looks, he can see the chains of a saddle around the creature's neck – he can see what looks like reins attached to the beast's horns. It's saddled. And there is indeed a man in the beast's back, standing there on stirrups and pulling with both arms at the reins.

The dragon lands behind the tents, but it's so large that Graves can easily see how the dragon immediately tries to throw the rider off, roaring and arching it's back like a angry cat – or a rodeo bull. The rider hands on, not only to the reins but a strap on the saddle and rides it out for a moment – but then he goes stumbling off and then -

Graves' lips tighten a little at the sudden _flood_ of flames behind the tents, and he'd be running over already if it wasn't for the Thestral, wildly bucking and trying to get away, pulling with all of it's might against the reins he was holding. "Should we go help?" he asks sharply.

"Er," the young soldier says hesitantly, his eyes wide.

Impatient, Graves hands him the reins – and if the Thestral flies off, all the better. It would exhaust itself with another bout of flying and then come back, exhausted and hungry and meek as anything. In the deserts, here wasn't any other place for it to go, but back to the camp.

With that settled, Graves wasted no time running ahead and around the stable tents, to see the damage. There are people around the dragon there, crowding and keeping the fire from spreading with shields – and judging by the looks of their attire, dragon hide from head to toe, it's not anything new. The tents and stables look to be fireproof as well, though it was well documented that there was no fireproof charm that could stand against dragonfire for long.

Graves hesitates – despite all of the fire and the enormous well of _heat_ radiating from the landing ground, now turned into a complete fire storm, the dragon tamers seem to have the situation in hand. The only problem is – the dragon is neither calming down nor running out of breath.

Maybe a bit of water would do it good…

Before he can decide on meddling or keeping to himself, he sees a shape in the blaze – a human shape, braving into the flames. Moment later there is the strangest sound – a dragon, hiccupping. The outpour of flames flutters and, eventually, dies out.

Everything smokes and fizzles with heat and the sun seems even hotter than before. The ground around the Ironbelly is scorched and the air flickers with heath haze – but he can still see the man, by the dragon's head. He has one elbow in the dragon's neck, pressing against it's wind pipe, and the other is on the dragon's horn, pressing down.

"I got him," the man shouts, "I got him!"

"You okay, English?" one of the locals shouts out in heavy accents.

The lunatic man with a dragon in a strangle hold throws back a grin. "Wouldn't say no to a drink."

Graves stares with surprise. The man, with deeply tanned skin and freckles heavy and pronounced on his skin, looks vaguely familiar. The familiarity grows only worse when the man wrenches back the dragon hire hood and sweaty ginger hair spills out over his forehead, to be pushed back by a hasty, gloved hand.

Graves folds his arms, unable to shake the familiarity. doesn't know that many ginger English wizards – only the one, really, and this man is most definitely not Theseus. But he can't shake the feeling he's seen the man before.

The dragon groans under the man and the ginger Brit shushes it, a wild, manic grin on his face. "Now that was bracing, wasn't it, Kirmizi? A nice bit of flying there…" The dragon growls and spits out a tiny trickle of fire at the man and he laughs in apparent delight.

Graves shakes his head and then looks at the nervous young soldier who had, against all odds, managed to keep his Thestral from flying off. "Um, sir," the young man says. "They really are waiting for you in the officer's tent, so if you please come this way, sir…"

Graves hesitates, looking at the dragon – whose lunatic rider is now all but crooning at it. Then, somewhat reluctant, he turns away.

If they had managed to master dragon taming – and start on the long dreamed dragon _riding_ here… it would change the entire course of the war.

* * *

 

Newt hung his head under the fountain, thanking his lucky stars not for the first time that Camp Iron Gut was a full wizard camp. On mixed camps, visible charms naturally weren't allowed – but on full wizard camps, they had infinite water fountains and thank _heavens._

He didn't think he could manage it, in the scorching east, without the fountains. Especially so considering what they were working with.

Releasing a sigh as the water ran through his hair, washing away the sweat and sooty grime, Newt didn't notice the wizard watching him until he cleared his throat. "I see you didn't throw yourself at your own wand."

Newt's head jerked up with surprise and he banged it against the stone dragon head, hissing in pain. Quickly leaning away from the water he looked up with pain bleary eyes - the man was smirking at him. "Do I know you?" Newt asks, frowning.

"Belgium about half a year ago," the man says and folds his arms, leaning on the side of the fountain. "Last I saw you, you were about to drown yourself in bad whiskey. Newt, right?"

"Excuse me?" Newt says and straightens up, his spine cracking slightly. He winces and arches his back a little to clear the kinks there – dragon riding, very bad on the old back. "Belgium you say," he mutters and rubs at his back.

He doesn't remember that much of his last couple of months of Belgium to be honest. They rather blurred together – with only flashes of sobriety when ever he had some cause to try and make himself presentable, which had been few and far between. Had Theseus not dragged him off to Turkey, he probably would still be at that damn whiskey bottle.

Ah.

"Did you know," Newt says, not meeting the man's eye. "There was an infinite charm on that bottle you gave me."

The dark haired man blinks. "Well that explains the unholy howl confiscating it caused," he murmurs and frowns, looking at him more curiously now.

Newt says nothing, running his hands through his wet hair and pushing it off his face, the refreshed feeling fading quickly. "So, what brings you to Camp Iron Gut, Mr…" he trails off and frowns. "I'm sorry, I've completely forgotten your name."

"Percival Graves," the man says and shakes his head. "I saw you flying the dragon there. You really control that beast?"

For given value of control, Newt muses privately and reaches out to get handful of water to splash on his face, a easy excuse to keep from meeting the man's eyes. "If you saw me flying then you know the answer," he says.

They've strictly forbidden him, or anyone else in the business of the dragon taming, from releasing the actual results of their tests and experiments. Bad for the war effort, to spread around the increasingly grim facts. Better for the foreign officers and dignitaries to see them in the business of _flying_ and then have them draw their own conclusions.

And then throw their gold at project which, really, had no hope of ever succeeding.

"I saw a dragon landing with you on it's back and then I saw it throw you off before it did it's very best to try and kill everyone near," Graves says, and Newt has really been in this camp for too long because it sounds like _iron_ in his voice. "How much control do you actually have over the thing?"

Newt doesn't answer, splashing his face again instead, before dipping lower to drink. Graves waits, impatient and increasingly annoyed with him, and Newt wishes someone would just call the man away already. He usually isn't allowed to interact with outsiders here. He isn't good enough a liar to do the propaganda bit, so, usually, people were kept from talking with him.

No one is calling Graves away though, and Newt is left squirming silently under his gaze, trying to think of an escape.

"Fine," Graves says after a moment. "Is there anything you actually can tell me about the dragons? We are here as an ally – we're here to bolster the defences in light of your… successes here."

Newt thinks about it. "You and your fellows should keep clear of the dragons," he says finally.

"Obviously," the man says flatly and then rolls his eyes as Newt offers him an awkward, uneasy smile. "Never mind then," the man mutters and pushes away from the fountain. "Is there a place to get food around here?"

"Well… yes," Newt says slowly.

Graves gives him an impatient look. "And can you _show me_ where it is?" he asks, pronouncing every word carefully.

"Um," Newt answers, leaning back suspiciously. "Why?"

"Because obviously I am going to grill you for information, why do you think?" the man says flatly and then lets out a small laugh at the way Newt recoils. "You're the only other man I know in this camp aside from my company and my company I know so well that they bore me to tears. So please, Newt, would you do me the pleasure of leading me to the food?"

Newt eyes him for a moment. "I probably shouldn't."

"You probably shouldn't be riding dragons either," Graves says and takes a few steps away. "Well?"

He really shouldn't, but… "It's the other way," Newt says and points.

"Well now I know that, _thank you_ ," Graves says while turning without a pause. "Coming?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oups had to make some changes sorry about the double posty

Graves is almost used to the waiting. That's what most of war is, he's come to know – waiting between bouts of noise and chaos, and the waiting grates on endlessly, an anxious tedium where you can never quite relax, never quite let your guard down. Always on pins and needles, always ready to go, never at ease. It's something he really could've done without.

There's not much to do in Camp Iron Gut, if you're not involved with the business of the Dragon taming. There's watches and guard duty and there is patrol – and then there is a lot of downtime with increasingly few interesting things to do. And you can play cards with the same people only so many times before you know all their tells and the game turns stale.

The late evenings are the worst, when the action dies down and even the Dragons go mostly quiet. It's eerie, to sit in middle of camp of half a thousand wizards and half a dozen Dragons, and have it all go quiet.

"I don't suppose you still have that whiskey bottle?" Graves asks without much hope.

"No alcohol around Dragons," Newt answers without looking up from the thing he's sketching on his ratty notebook – something about the Dragons' wings.

"That doesn't answer my question," Graves says and gets up from where he was idly examining his spare clothes for stains or tears. "And your delivery needs work."

Newt glances at him and then away again. "No alcohol around Dragons, I'm afraid," he offers, bit more apologetic and compassionate this time – little more natural and less like he's echoing. "Better?"

"Better," Graves says and leans in to look at what he is doing – yeah, it's about Dragon wings, and judging by the detail Newt is putting into the sketches and the numbering of different joints, it must be _terribly_ interesting for him. "I'll make a passable liar out of you yet. I still wouldn't put you in front of a podium, though."

"Merlin forbid," Newt says and looks at the sketch. He fiddles with the edge of the page for a moment and then dips his quill in more ink to add few more shadows on the folds. "If you want alcohol, the forward look out might have some – I've seen them pass a wine bottle around."

"Hm," Graves answers. The forward watch, a mingled company of more local wizards, did not much care for his company – or him. Like with Newt, their presence here is more political than beneficial in the minds of the locals.

Though they certainly didn't mind them doing air patrols, that still didn't mean they'd share their last precious bits of spirits with them.

"I'll pass," he says and leans his hip against the table, examine Newt's strewn about notes. Somehow, in the midst of Dragon wrangling and the delicate balance of keeping appearances, the man is writing lot of notes on the beasts. "You're really actually interested in this stuff, aren't you?" he comments, reaching for one of Newt's many notebooks.

It's filled to the brim with scattered notes about feeding and talon care and the precise measurements of the force of the Dragon fire. It's all very technical and scientific.

"They're fascinating creatures," Newt answers, glancing at him and then away again, apparently deeming him no threat to his precious notebooks. "I reckon I could spend years studying them in… different circumstances."

"Really?" Graves asks, flipping through pages. "I suppose there are worse ways of spending your time. Can't really think of that many myself, but…"

Newt sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. "And what would you be doing, then?" he asks. "If it wasn't for the war?"

Graves hesitates, eying image – a disturbingly close examination of the back of a Dragon's mouth. How on earth had Newt even… "Who knows," he says after a moment. "I was planning to try and join the Department of Magical Security at MACUSA but… life happened."

Newt eyes him – his hands on the book, actually, but sometimes it is closest thing to an eye contact you got with the man. "Life does have the tendency of doing that," he says and looks away studiously. "Auror, hm. It'd suit you."

"Why thank you, Newt," Graves smiles and closes the book with it's worrying imagery. "Coming from you that means the world."

The Brit shakes his head at that and takes his notebook back. "How did you join, Graves?" he then asks. "I can't see anyone pressuring you into going to war."

Graves pauses at that, arching his eyebrows. "Well that's a question that tells a lot about the questioner if I ever heard one," he muses and Newt comes very close to giving him a _look_. Smiling, Graves folds arms and looks at him. "Well you know how it goes. Chance to see the world, do heroic deeds, get a bit of glory… doesn't every young man want that?"

Newt's eyes narrow a little and he looks away. "Right," he says and shaking his head starts to stack up his books, closing the one he was working on.

Graves smiles. Damn, the man is so easy to read. "I wanted to go," he says and Newt pauses. "I thought the cause was good and I wanted to fight. That's why I joined."

Newt, he knows, is a borderline conscript, pressured into it by friends and family and probably whatever his circumstances had been before joining. His original placement in the Black Birds probably played a role – the man was soft on animals, and the Hippogriff Cavalries had… a reputation.

To Newt, wanting to go to war was probably completely alien concept.

"Do you think the cause is good?" Graves asks, watching the line of Newt's neck, watching for the telltale tension there.

"The cause," Newt repeats slowly and then a flash of light runs through the tent around them, like flash of red lightning that lingers – and yet, no sound.

A silent alarm.

Graves straightens up immediately and shares a look with Newt – and then they're both out of the tent, Newt grabbing his flight hood as he goes and Graves checking to see that his wand and potions were where they were supposed to be.

"What's going on?" Graves asks when they run into the nearest officer, heading to the officer's tent.

"Muggles," the witch says grimly and motions to the tent ahead.

 The officer's tent, the maps are already spread out and they are marking troops on the map with figurines. Camp Iron Gut sits in a valley, like most Wizarding camps do, due to the fact that it makes the concealment charms easier to set up, and having natural walls around lowered the power requirement for the wards. Graves himself has never been a supporter of that particular practice – it tends to put them on the lower position. Worse yet, it made them easy to besiege.

"Here," one of his company, Jackson, says while pointing at the map. "I made couple of passes over them – it looked like half a battalion. Four hundred men at least."

"And they're all Muggles?" the camp commander Novák asks, sounding bewildered as they very paint a bewildering picture.

"Uniforms, guns – they looked Nomaj to me," Jackson says, folding her arms. "And they're making beeline for Camp Iron Gut."

"Muggles?" Novák asks again, incredulous. "This camp is concealed, it's invisible, it's _unplottable_ , how in…" he trails off, shaking his head. "No, it doesn't matter. Four hundred you say, on foot?"

"As far as I could see sir," Jackson agrees and looks up to Graves. "Sir," she greets him with nod. "Melendez stayed behind to keep an eye on the enemy – I send Limus and Bones to assist him, hope you don't mind."

"No, that's as it should," Graves says and leans in to look. Judging by the markers on the map, the Nomajes were coming from east. As far as he could remember – and he'd memorised the area fairly well – there were no Nomaj war camps anywhere near them on the east side. "Did they have tanks, trucks, cars – any vehicles?"

"No, sir – just men on foot," Jackson says. "And there's none coming after them in hearing range, not as far as we could tell. If they are, they're at least couple miles behind."

"Hm. Might be that they're on a march, and don't know we're here," Graves murmurs thoughtfully.

"It's pretty late for marching, don't you think? Shouldn't they be making camp by now?" someone mutters derisively. "It's obviously a stealth assault."

"You think Nomajes would be attacking us at _night_ on _foot_ without any vehicles? With no trucks they can't have any heavy artillery either," Graves says and looks at Jackson. "Did you see anything else?"

"No – but it was lucky we spotted them at all, sir, to be honest," Jackson says and looks at him. "They had no lights, no fires, nothing, and they're moving slow and quiet like. I'm not going to lie, sir, it did look a lot like sneaking to me."

Graves frowns and leans back a little. "That makes no sense," he says slowly. "If they know we're here, if they know _what's_ here, they would bring tanks. They'd bring _planes_ if they could."

"I don't know what to tell you, sir. That's what I saw," she says, shaking her head.

Novák hums darkly. "Right," he says and runs a hand over his beard. "Well either they know we're here or they're on their way somewhere else and we're just on the way. We need to figure out what we'll do about them."

"Can they walk into the camp?"

"We have Muggle repellents always up, of course," Novák says. "But those are suggestive – if they push through them and sometimes Muggles can do that if they want to enough… We'd have to raise the wards to keep them out, and they'd definitely notice that no matter how many notice-me-not charms we put up."

"Can we re-direct them, somehow?" Graves asks, as more officers stream into the tent, getting quick updates from the soldiers hanging by. "Make them go around?"

"Hmm," Novák hums grimly, frowning. "First we need to figure out if they're heading for us… or through us. Jackson, was it? How long would you say it will take for them to get here?"

"At the pace they're going, couple of hours," she answers.

"Alright. I want more eyes on them," Novák muses and looks at Graves. "Lieutenant, I want your people to scout the area closer. I want to know how many there are, what sort of weaponry they have – their exact direction of approach. It'll be damn precise bit of bad luck if they're really heading straight for the camp accidentally."

"Yes, sir," Graves says. "I'll head out myself too – should be back with word inside half an hour."

"Good, go," Novák says and turns to the other officers. "Rouse the camp," he says. "Whatever this is, we better be prepared. Where's the Rider?"

"Here, sir," Newt says, pushing past Graves close enough for their shoulders to brush – the fact that he doesn't even flinch is a testament to how tense the situation is. "I was going to go tend to the Dragons."

"Keep them quiet and keep them down," Novák says darkly. "If this all an accident, last thing we want is bunch of Muggle soldiers seeing the beasts."

"Yes, sir," Newt says.

"Go," Novák says dismissively, and Graves quickly falls instep with Newt as they both hurry out of the tent.

"If it comes to fighting," Graves says under his breath. "Can they?"

"The Dragons?" Newt asks incredulously as he pulls the flight hood on, tucking stray strands of hair under the protective dragonhide. "Sure they can fight, they're Dragons. Problem is _whom_ they will fight."

Graves almost laughs at that. It's the closest Newt has came to admitting that the whole Dragon taming business is fool's errand, and of course it happens under threat of battle. "Don't get scorched out there, Newt," he says and claps the man on the shoulder.

Newt almost stumbles under it, but he nods. "Fly well, Graves," he says even as he squirms from the touch – and then he's running off towards the Dragon's enclosures. Graves shakes his head – even at time like this – and then turns to run towards the stables, to get his Thestral.

* * *

 

The Dragons, usually, didn't much care for what people did. So as long as they weren't being hurt and they were well fed, they generally ignored them, by now knowing they could do nothing about them. The alarm of the camp and the tension in the air had them roused up, however, and it was all Newt and the Dragon tamers could do to keep them down.

"Chain?" one of the local Dragon handlers, Vass, asks grimly.

"Hm," Newt answers, biting his lib. "No, that will just agitate them further. No, we need to play with them – do we have any live animals left?"

They did – some geese which had been saved for future need of enticement in case they had _visitors_ at the camp. Newt watches them being brought out and as expected, the Dragons attention was immediately drawn to them – they knew treats when they saw them, at least.

"Lets' try and keep them interested for as long as we can, before actually feeding them," Newt decides. "Get cages for the birds. In the mean while, it might be safest to start shield up, just in case."

"Right," Vass agrees and then starts issuing hushed commands in Hungarian and then Ukrainian, spreading the word. While they get ready, Newt heads forwards to check up on Dragons.

They're all, of course, chained down – their hind legs shackled to rods sunk so deep into the earth that even their combined efforts wouldn't be able to free them. Newt checks the chain, idly dodging irritated swipes with talons and snapping jaws – easy enough to do, with the Dragons distracted by the promise of the geese. They haven't seriously tried to kill him in weeks anyway, so he isn't too concerned.

Kohut has a small cut on his left hind leg from the shackles – he'd tried to take off, only to be held down by the chains. Virág's leg, which bears similar cuts, looks much better now – she'd been treated for it, though naturally the bandages Newt had applied are nowhere in sight. Well, in burning them she'd cauterised the cuts, so that was fine.

"There, there," Newt murmurs, dodging the tongue of flame Virág spits at him and ducking under her sinewy neck on his way to Kirmizi. He growls at Newt and Newt growls back with a slight sneer that doesn't quite carry the same effect as the look Kirmizi gives him. "Hello there old boy, how are you doing? It's a bit anxious right now, but it's alright, everything's alright…"

Kirmizi is the only Dragon that had been hatched in the camp. It had been before Newt had joined, but Kirmizi still been a mere Dragonet when he'd had arrived – and having provided some of his early care, Newt had managed to, somewhat, bond with the male Ironbelly. Kirmizi didn't try to eat him nearly as much as the other Dragons.

He does, however, scorch Newt a lot, so much so that the fire protection charm comes automatically when Kirmizi draws a breath. The flames flood over him and around him and Newt holds his breath, bearing the barrage as calmly as he can. Fire resistance charms or not the heat is still unbearable and if he inhales, it will destroy his lungs in a single breath.

Kirmizi snarls and the gust of flame sputters out, leaving Newt steaming and smoking in ring of scorch marks. "Better?" he asks, amused, and reaches out. Kirmizi scoffs a bit of smoke at him and then turns to ignore him in favour of looking at the geese. Laughing quietly, Newt runs a hand along the Dragon's neck and then checks his hind legs, just in case.

He goes over the other Dragons similarly, soothing them with if not his presence, then with the routine of checkups which he does daily and which the Dragons are, more or less, used to. The other handlers keep the Dragons entertained by shuffling the cages with the geese around, keeping their attention shifting this way and that. It's not quite hunting, but it stimulates those same instincts just enough to keep the Dragons quiet.

Newt feels, not for the first time, the guilt of keeping these animals contained. Even in Dragon preserves they are treated better – they have more freedoms, caves to nest in and actual hunting grounds and they aren't under the constant barrage of _people_ like these Dragons are. It's a wonder the Ironbellies aren't more stressed than they already are.

But he knows his job, so he does his best to keep them calm and quiet until the alarm is raised again – and this time people aren't trying to keep their voices down, shouting in dismay and horror.

Newt barely has the chance to get worried about the sudden noise people are making, when he is almost knocked down by Virág who makes a sudden lunge, falling short of snatching him up in her jaws only thanks to the shackles. Quickly he backs away – he really should know better than drop his guard down next to the Dragons like this – and then he sees Graves.

"You're back already? What's going on?" Newt asks.

"Inferi," Graves says and takes him by the elbow. "And I doubt that'll be all of it. I never made it there – met with Mendelez mid air and decided to come back with him. Come on – the officer's tent."

"What – Inferi?" Newt asks. "You – you must be joking –"

"Not even close," Graves says and hauls him across the camp and into the officers tent. The tension of before is replaced by shocked alarm and pinched horror as Graves' men from the Eighty-one-Fourths recount the report.

"… Nomaj casualties – some of them look like they've just been dug out of their graves," a man Newt vaguely recalls is called Mendelez, is explaining to the commander. "Russians mostly, some Austrians and few others – their clothes have been coloured to match so they look like single company, but it's a mixed bunch."

"Someone dug up a mass grave," Graves says, pushing his way to the table and brining Newt along with him.

"Yeah, I'd say so, sir," Mendelez agrees and looks at Novák again. "The guns they have are all knock ups – wood similes mostly. But I saw more than couple holding phials, so they're not unarmed."

Novák is staring at the map with wide eyes, his hands white knuckled on the table's edge. Newt doesn't blame the man – his mind hasn't quite caught up with the idea of _Inferi_.

"Is – is it the Russians, the Germans, or – did you see emblems, anything to indicate who is behind this?" Novák asks, his voice faint with horror.

"No idea, sir. All they have are Nomaj insignias, no sign of who actually rouse them," Mendelez says apologetically.

"Well, we have a nice and quick solution to Inferi," someone says. "They're weak to fire, aren't they?"

Everyone looks at Newt suddenly, and he almost takes a step back. "S-sure Inferi are weak to fire, but –" he trails off, shaking his head in denial. They can't possibly be thinking that they could actually use the Dragons for that, can they?

"A company of Inferi, while alarming, is ridiculous attack against a camp with Dragons," Graves says grimly. "Even if we can't use the Dragons for defence, I dare say there isn't a witch or wizard here who doesn't know all sorts of fire charms. Even with potions on them – we have hundreds of able soldiers here, we can take few hundred Inferi."

"So you think is a distraction?" Novák asks, paling even further.

"Either that, or they're testing us," Graves says. "Watching from afar to see how we deal with the Inferi. Do we deal with them by ourselves… or with the Dragons we're supposed to control."

The tension in the rook rackets up at that and Newt looks down. It's a open but still somewhat well kept secret and no one has ever actually spoken it out loud, he doesn't think, and having it out on the open like that, in time like this.

"You go too far," Novák says darkly.

"Propaganda is well and good, but facts are facts," Graves says just as darkly. "And depending on what we do now, the word will go out."

Newt squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and when he opens then, Novák is staring at him with a mingled look of frustration and bleak hope.

"Well, Rider?" he asks. "Can you do it?"

Can he ride a Dragon into an actual battle, and have it attack their enemies… rather than they allies and everyone else near by?

No. No he can't. No one can.

_But he can't say that._

Everyone is staring at him, _Graves_ is staring at him, and Newt knows what is hanging in the balance here. The Dragon riding is propaganda, yes, but it is damn important bit of propaganda and he is painfully aware how important. Theseus had all but nailed the importance into his head.

It is, right now, the only reason why there is some sort of cohesion left in the still functioning members of the ICW. It has even forged a sort of stalemate between all the warring parties – and there were _so many warring parties_. It was a promise of a peace treaty, forged under threats maybe, but still, the promise of Dragons in war under ICW's control might… might force peace.

There are so many lives hanging in the balance.

"Can you, Newt?" Graves asks grimly, and Newt knows he's expecting him to admit it, and finally put an end to the farce and move on from it.

Newt licks his lips. "I can try," he says and quickly looks away from Graves. The man might be disappointed – he might be proud, who knows. Either way, Newt doesn't want to know and instead he looks at the commander. "I can try."

Novák hears both sides of that answer, the promise and the threat both and after moment he nods. "Go," he says.

And Newt goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to be more on mature side. Yeah.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for cruelty against dragons and violence and war and all that nasty stuff.

His ear is ringing and the only reason his hands don't shake is because he's gripping the reins like his life depends on it. It _does_ depend on it. Below him the world swirls and whorls, fast mad spiral, as they rise, high, high. The air whistles and stings where the flight hood doesn't cover his face and his eyes water and he can't tell which way the gravity goes.

For a moment, Newt wishes, begs, _prays_ that Kirmizi will just fly off. Just turn his head to north, and fly, fly… For the first time they're flying without weights, without chains – without rings on Kirmizi's wings, limiting his flight range. For the first time the Ironbelly is free to fly as far and as fast as he ever likes and oh please just _fly away, boy, please_.

It doesn't happen. They level good three hundred yards above the camp, and Kirmizi roars, breathing flame down on Camp Iron Gut as it spreads out below them. It's too far away for the flames to reach, thank _Merlin_ , but the joyously furious intent in the roar is clear.

Newt grips the reins righter and then tries to pull, pushing with all his might against the opposition Kirmizi puts, trying to turn the dragon's head east. Of course Kirmizi fights against it, tugging against the pull and snarling back at him – one good wrench and he'd have Newt off his back, if it weren't for the carabiners he was strapped in with.

"I know, boy, I know, trust me I know, I know," Newt says – it will never carry over the rush of wind and Kirmizi's own roars. "That place has given you nothing but grief, I know – but it will give you worse than that if you try to have a go at it. Kirmizi, please!"

The dragon snarls and then shakes, like a dog, in midair. Newt looses his footing on the stirrups and crashes down, his weight awkwardly on his left thigh – he can almost hear the bone creaking. He releases one side of the reins in order to right himself and immediately feeling the slack on one side Kirmizi tugs, hard, to the other side. Newt can feel his forefinger dislocating as the rein is taken from his hand and then…

They're descending, fast, on the camp below and Kirmizi is roaring in challenge. The other dragons snarl from below, still chained down, and Newt can see Kohut rearing as far as he could and sending flames in air – answering the challenge in kind, the foolish creature, despite the fact that he's grounded and Kirmizi has the advantage -

Newt clambers back onto the stirrups and reaches for the reins and then whips out his wand, with an "Accio!" spat out through clenched teeth, and then the strap is in his hand. With his hand aching and dislocated finger twisting painfully, Newt grabs his wand in his teeth and then pulls on the reins as hard as he can, throwing his whole weight onto it – "Pull up, pull up, _pull up_!"

And, as if just to be contrary, Kirmizi doesn't, not in time. Newt more feels than sees the tent the dragon rakes to ruin with it's fore talons but he can hear the scream of someone below, in pain, and then they're going up.

And then Kirmizi is breathing flame and while it doesn't reach the tents – and the people – below, it's far too close for comfort.

Newt hangs on for dear life, trying with all his might to direct the dragon away from the camp, and towards the actual threat in east – desperate, hopeless affair he knew from very start would never ever work.

He should've ran away, he thinks wildly. He should've, back in Belgium, he should've…

Too late now.

* * *

 

Graves watches the dragon above them, wand clutched in hand. Newt is nothing but a speck on the beasts back, barely visible past the beating wings and occasional, blindingly brilliant gusts of flames. If he has any control over the careening dragon… Graves can't see it.

It was always going to end up in tragedy, he'd always known that.

He just hadn't thought that they would have to fight the fucking _undead_ when it finally blew up in their faces.

"Sir," Jackson asks, coming to his side. "Sir, what are we going to do?"

Graves scowls. What are they going to do – which threat are they going to deal with. Which one is the bigger threat, the dragon or the Inferi? "We have our orders. Saddle up," he says, eyes still on the dragon as it turns, another lick of flame lighting the darkening sky. "Where's Mendelez?"

"Here," a male voice says and Mendelez comes to his side. "I gotta tell you, Lieutenant, my Thestral's bit on the tired side – we've been on patrol for four hours."

"I know, you're taking mine," Graves says and glances at him just long enough to make sure the man isn't too exhausted himself – but Mendelez's face his hard with alertness and his eyes are sharp. He'll do. "Take it and scout around. There's someone out there, watching this all go to hell in a hand basket – find them."

"Sir," Mendelez says and then hurries towards the stables.

"What about you, sir – you taking Mendelez' Thestral?" Jackson asks worriedly.

Graves hesitates for a moment. Tired Thestral fresh from patrol and from high speed flight back to the camp too. "I'm taking a broom," he decides and Jackson just stares. "Go, get saddled up – and someone throw some meat to Mendelez' beast – I might have to take it up later. For now, broom will do."

They all have brooms, of course, shrunk down and always on their person for emergencies – but a broom isn't a bird or a horse, it isn't _reliable_. The charms failed, the wood gave away, and it takes half of your attention just to keep the damn thing in the air – not exactly optimal conditions for aerial combat.

Better than nothing though.

Above them, the dragon Newt is trying to – failing to – control circles around, lower now and then…

Then there is fire.

* * *

 

Newt can't see. His vision is full of bright spots and blurry shapes and his eyes are narrowed tight against the searing heat. It's always in your face, when you're on dragon back as they breathe fire – the heat, it washes over you like a tide and the longer it goes on, the less the protective charms handle it.

The first lick of flame that actually burns catches him on the side of his cheek and with a hiss of pain Newt concentrates onto renewing the fire protection charms. It's just about all he can do, to hang on and bear it. He can't see or hear anything much either – there is nothing beyond the fire and the roaring, but he knows – he _knows_.

The camp.

Really none of them should've ever expected anything different. Kirmizi and the other dragons were never treated that well – captive, chained down, fed in measured trickles, hobbled and forced to perform tricks… Newt had done all he could to make it more humane, he'd even gotten them to stop using whips on the beasts, but it wasn't a kind existence.

And it was useless since the very beginning.

A dragon isn't a social herd animal, they have no hierarchy or family structure amongst themselves – unlike with horses and other domesticated creatures, a human being can't take the place at the top of the hierarchy because none exists. And on top of that, dragon is a predator at the pinnacle of the food chain - and as such, a dragon does not have the social composition for being abused into compliance. It simply didn't _affect_ them the same way it did horses or dogs or other more social animals.

Dragon cannot be kowtowed because they do not have the _capacity_ for being kowtowed.

Newt had told them. He'd told them it would fail but they'd assured him it _had_ to succeed. For the greater good, the program had to succeed. It had to, even when it never would, _it had to_.

Now he tries to desperately pull back the reins of a disaster about to take place not just right in front of him but in large part _because_ of him, because he is the idiot who managed to survive riding on a dragon's back too many times for anyone's wellbeing.

"Kirmizi!" he shouts as he tries to wrench back on the reins. "Kirmizi, pull up, please, _pull up_!"

Kirmizi doesn't pull up. He has had a taste of destruction now, and he's a dragon – of course he likes it.

* * *

 

Graves leaves behind a camp on fire, not quite keeping up with the rest of the Eighty-one-Fourths as they head out, and towards.

It feels more than little like running away.

It's a logical move, he thinks grimly, a tactical one. Novák had been perfectly justified in ordering them to head out. There isn't much his company can do against the dragon, nothing that more veteran dragon handlers can't do much better. Camp Iron Gut is full of experience dragon handlers – they'd _handle_ it… or they wouldn't, either way, Graves doubted very much he could've made much difference.

What he, and his company, can do is deal with the Inferi. It's the logical choice. But damn, it grates.

"Sir, two points east," Jackson shouts over the wind as Graves concentrates on controlling the trice damned broom.

"I see it," Graves shouts back – and he does. A dark line of ground bound figures – barely visible in the late evening darkness, but there. They're still moving slowly, so whoever controls them is either in no hurry of expending them, or has left them with the bare essential commands only – either way, it is their advantage.

"Jackson, Limus – you flank to their backside on the right," Graves commands. "Bones, you and Thacker take the left. The rest of us will take care of the front," he waits until the command makes down the line and nods. "Standard Inferi tactics. Go."

The company splits without further ceremony, everyone knowing their job.

It's not the first time they'd fought Inferi. Grim fact of war – dead bodies are cheap. It takes some truly grisly arts to rise the dead and there aren't that many commanders who will stomach a necromancer in their ranks, even fewer commanders who become necromancers themselves… but it happens. Dead bodies are cheaper than living soldier, all it really cost you was in sentiment and sanity.

Graves holds onto the broom with one hand and aims his wand with the other. If he was on Thestral he'd go with Fiendfyre – nothing better against Inferi – but he isn't. Incendios would have to do.

"FIRE!"

* * *

 

It's only matter of time before Newt gets thrown off Kirmizi's back entirely and he's not doing much good there, busy as he is just keeping his footing and not falling off, and the dragon is fury-mad now and gleefully setting everything he can aflame… it is beyond his reasoning.

So, gritting his teeth against the sting of now increasing number of burns and bruises, Newt unhooks his carabiners. He looks quickly down, eyes narrowed against the heat and wind and the mad spin of the world – there, a clear spot.

He Disapparates and squeezes through to Apparate on the ground below. The line-of-sight apparition is jarring and sends him to his knees – and that is most definitely a sprained, if not a broken ankle.

"English!" Vass shouts, running towards him. "This is madness, yes?"

Newt gasps for a breath and then struggles to his feet again – or rather, on a foot. He looks up to where Kirmizi is hovering above the camp – fire-preening, he thinks wildly. That's what the old manuals called it – Dragon set a place on fire and then hovered above it, fanning the flames with it's wing beats, basking in the glow. Fire-preening.

He'd thought that was just _myth_.

Around them people are shouting, trying to put out the fires, trying to fireproof themselves. Few are attempting to cast spells on Kirmizi, but of course he's a dragon – most of them just bounce off his hide and the few that hit him do little more than annoy him. Any more, and they'd have the dragon doing another passes and this time – he might go after people.

God, at this rate he probably would soon go after people.

"Madness," Newt says, faint. "Yes, it rather is –" and then he stops, his eyes widening as he realises what he just said. "No, Vass – wait!"

Too late. She's already nodded and gone, running away towards one of the tents – the armament tent, just as ablaze as most every other tent in the camp. As Newt watches in horror she flings her wand and throws the burning tent off, clearing the space out in a forceful flick and revealing the buried, metal crate that was underneath.

Moment later, she has it open, and she is pulling out a massive Muggle gun, almost as long as she is tall.

"Vass, please, no, wait!" Newt shouts, trying to limp towards her as she prepares the gun with well rehearsed moves, clack clack clack as she opens the gun, loads the enormous bullet in, and snaps the barrel in place. She doesn't even hesitate.

Flash of light, brighter than any gust of flame Kirmizi could manage. Somehow the sound that follows is even louder than everything else around them – the enormous, echoing _crack_ that seems to split the air. It cuts through the cacophony and the shouting and then – then Kirmizi screams.

"Don't worry, English," Vass says, even as she opens the gun, gets the shell out, and loads another. "I aim for wing, see? Bring him down – not kill him."

Newt stares, eyes wide, as Kirmizi comes down and one of his wings just flaps at his side, limb and lifeless. One winged the dragon manages, just barely, to keep himself from crashing down face first, but it's far from a graceful landing.

"Now we handle," Vass says. "Come English."

Newt limps after her, his mind reeling, trying to keep up – oh, this has all gone so terribly. But she's right – they have angry, grounded dragon to handle. And Newt supposes he could call himself lucky to know that it's still a _live_ dragon.

He doesn't feel particularly lucky, though. And judging by the way the camp burns around them, he very much doubts anyone else does either.

* * *

 

It's a standard tactic with Inferi to load them with explosives. Explosive potions or Nomaj explosives if the necromancer got their hands on some – something to turn them into living bombs. The standard way of dealing with Inferi is to burn them, after all.

It's a calculated risk to attack the Inferi with fire, but also a tactic on it's own. Best way to deal with lot of Inferi is to set some of them in fire – and let the explosions take care of as many of the rest as possible. And then, once the chaos ends, pick out the rest. It was noisy and messy and utterly devastating in urban warfare, but on open field, it's relatively safe.

Graves' company is good at what they do, too they know how it works – they keep their distance, and have their shields up. The Thestrals are used to it too, and automatically backing the moment the fire starts, to get away from explosions they know are coming.

Except there are no explosions. The few Inferi they'd targeted catch fire and burn just as bright as Inferi always do – always morbidly satisfyingly– but there is something wrong. There are no explosions of light, no increased fire, nothing. Didn't Mendelez say the Inferi had potion phials?

"Anyone see flashes?!" Graves shouts over the roar of flames. "Jones, do you see explosions?"

"No sir, no explosions!" Jones shouts back, reining his Thestral back. "Duds maybe?"

"Doubt it," Graves mutters. Someone out there is not just good enough to find Camp Iron Gut after all the measures to keep the exact location top secret – but they were enough of a smug bastard to target it with _Inferi_. It is all very snide and meaningful and person who came up with an attack this conceited wouldn't load their spellfodder with dud potions.

And they didn't.

The first potion phial is thrown almost lazily past the fires, not aimed at them but rather just as far as it could go on. It shatters against the hard packed earth – and then another phial follow it and then another and then Graves sees what it is.

"It's gas!" someone shouts. "They're throwing gas!"

"BACK UP!" Graves roars. "Everyone FALL BACK!"

More phials are shattering now all around them and plumes of greenish smoke start spreading, single phials turning into enormous clouds of smoke that combine, until the area is thick with quickly rising smoke. It even blankets the burning Inferi, and for a moment Graves thinks wildly it's some sort of new development, a fire proof gas. 

Then there is a whinnying shriek and in the corner of his eye he sees a Thestral falling. It's rider – Limus – Disapparates instantly and the skeletal horse falls alone into the cloud of smoke, vanishing under it.

They fly, as fast as they can, away from the quickly spreading bank of gas, Graves glancing backwards every now and then to try and estimate the spread – just how far did one phial go, how much smoke did you get out of it…

"Sir, Limus," Jackson points and Graves looks up to see sparks flying in the air ahead of them.

"Did he do line-of-sight?" Graves mutters and then glances back. The smoke is still spreading – but mostly upwards now, rather than expanding along the ground. It's going rather high too, aided by the fire into a column that is already idly curling around itself. It's designed, he realises, to be used in conjunction with fire, and it's aim is _altitude_.

Someone developed it specifically as answer to aerial combat, using the standard aerial tactics against Inferi… against the attackers. It as a tactic designed to be used against flying cavalries.

Or maybe… against dragons.

"Jones, go get Limus," Graves says grimly. "We need to get back to the camp, and fast."

"Sir?" Jackson asks worriedly while Jones dives down to the source of the sparks.

"How many Inferi did we set on fire?" Graves asks.

"Maybe thirty – maybe fifty at most?" she answers.

"Well, the rest three hundred and half are still on their way, aren't they?" Graves asks with arched eyebrows and points backwards

The highest plume of sickly smoke is breaking off at the base, and the front… is advancing.

"… shit," Jackson murmurs as the realisation dawns.

Three hundred and fifty Inferi, and if they had enough of those potions to cover their entire approach, standard Inferi tactics were unusable. Graves hums in grim agreement and then looks down as Jones comes back up, urging his Thestral to beat higher.

"Limus is dead," Jones says, looking pale. He's holding a set of tags in one hand. "Choked to death."

Graves breathes in and out once slowly and then nods. "Back to camp," he says, hoping that there is still a camp to get back to.

* * *

 

"Please, sir, please!" Newt cries, struggling against Vass and the other dragon handlers holding him back. "Please, he's not dangerous – he's just acting according to his nature, sir, please -!"

No one was listening to him. Furiously struggling Kirmizi is pinned down by chains and metal rods imbedded in ground, weights conjured all over him to trap him. On his side the wing Vass shot is bleeding into the soot stained ground and in front of him there is the commander.

Novák has the Muggle rifle in his hands and though he doesn't load it with quite the same skill as Vass had, it is obvious that he too has skill and practice with it. Clack, clack, clack…

" _Please_!" Newt begs, trying to wrench himself away from Vass. "You always knew it would turn up like this, everyone knew – they're dragons it's just their nature, sir, please, don't hurt him!"

"Kirmizi is a man killer," Novák says darkly and looks at him. "We cannot waste time on man killers."

"That's what you wanted him to do anyway, to kill people!" Newt cries. "And how is he supposed to tell friends from foes when his supposed friends abuse and beat him – sir, please! Don't do this, please, please, please don't do this, we can still train him –"

It happens so fast. Newt's breath is caught between words as the flash and noise bring him to a sudden halt.

Kirmizi stops struggling.

Novák waits for a moment, one of his adjutants ready with another bullet… but it's not needed. The first got the job done.

Newt crumbles to the ground as his knees and his blindingly aching ankle give out. Vass and the others let him fall, and the impact jars him to the core – and yet, not enough to get his mind moving again. It's frozen, utterly, completely frozen, just as frozen as dead dragon in front of him.

"Four dead, Rider," Novák says to him coolly and hands the weapon back to Vass. "Four dead, and more wounded, and the camp burned to the ground."

Newt doesn't answer and after a moment the commander turns away. The others follow the man and leave him there and Newt can hear orders being issued, can hear the action of people getting to work – the terrible sizzle of steam as they begin hosing down the flames. He can hear order being established.

He can't think.

He can't…

Kirmizi lays still in front of him, proud head of horns pinned to the ground. There are still chains on him, weights over his wing and tail, he looks terrible, he looks like he must be hurting. But of course he isn't. Because he's dead.

Newt had all but raised the dragon.

And he is dead.

"Newt?"

A hand on his shoulder makes Newt recoil and he almost draws his wand at Graves who is suddenly standing behind him. "Newt, the camp is evacuating," the man says. "The Inferi are coming and they've got a new potion, a gas that chokes you, they're using for cover. The wards are going to be brought up, but according to Novák they're not designed against gas attacks, they won't hold it off."

Newt stares at him in incomprehension for a long moment and then looks back at Kirmizi. "I," he says and then doesn't have any idea how to continue. He… what? What is he going to do now? Kirmizi is dead. What on earth is he going to do now?

Graves looks at the dragon and then takes him by the elbow. "Come on," he says gruffly, and takes Newt away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I say this is not a happy story I mean that this is really really not a happy story. Especially not at the start.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lifted the rating for reasons of smut

It's eerily quiet. Newt is sitting all but lifeless behind him and Graves finds himself strangely hushed as he sits down, taking in the room.

It has been a hellish few days – and had eventually led them here, in an abandoned Nomaj village that's barely big enough to be called even that. With men exhausted and mounts worn to the bone – sometimes literally in the case of the Thestrals – Novák had decided to take the village, shield and charm it up against Nomajes, and give the men the time to rest. Day, or two, and back to the march, waiting for orders to come from… who even knew where at this point.

Well, it beats sleeping on the ground – or, as it had mostly been, not sleeping at all.

"We got fairly comfortable accommodations, all things considered," Graves muses, glancing at Newt. "Actual room, bed, even got table and chair. We're living in downright luxury here."

Newt doesn't even look at him. He's sitting on the said bed, head bowed, leaning his elbows to his knees and staring at his hands.

"Few days like this and we'll be back to our feet, no problem," Graves muses. "Wouldn't you say?"

Newt says nothing.

Graves hums. He rather wishes he had grabbed one of the leaflets the owls had dropped before. Propaganda, again, but this time from the other side – publicising the fall of Camp Iron Gut and the disastrous failure of their falsely acclaimed Dragon Cavalry. They certainly hadn't waited a moment to cash in on the failure.

And it was some new German commander who'd done it too, Grindel-something. Up and coming rising star, previously all but unheard of. By now, he was probably considered a war hero for exposing the _Iron Gut conspiracy_. Not that Graves could say he didn't understand – it was all so insidiously well done. He couldn't have done it better if he tried.

"Tch," Graves sighs and runs a hand through his hair, and glances as Newt. Nothing. "Alright," he sighs and then grimaces at the grimy feel of his hair. "Might as well take the opportunity and clean ourselves up a bit, hm?"

He puts words to action and while Newt continues to brood in spellshocked silence that has been his general state ever since they lost Camp Iron Gut, Graves starts patching up his clothes. Only the one set left now – he'd lost the other in the fire. Better take care of it.

He cleans the clothes, going through them meticulously for tears or burn marks, and fixing those as well. Once his clothes are taken care off, he casts a mirror charm and examines himself in it. Since there is nothing better to, he goes through the trouble of shaving a little off the sides as he cleans it, shortening it minutely on the top as well before pushing it back flat. Much better. That done, he turns his face this way and that, considering the several days worth of stubble, before taking care of it as well.

"You should clean up too, you know," Graves says, casting few more cleaning charms, cleaning himself the best he can without a bath at handy. "You're still covered in soot."

Newt doesn't answer.

It's starting to piss Graves off a little. The Brit had never been the most talkative, choosing rather to bite back his words than give away the things he'd probably been forbidden from speaking about. The whole debacle is blown open now, they should be finally able to talk _freely_ – and Newt's gone completely nonverbal.

"Right," Graves says and makes a decision. He gets up from the chair and walks up to Newt. Of course after all this time the man _still_ has to flinch when he hauls him up, but Graves lets that slide and looks at the man's face, his hair, dragon hide flight suit. All of it's _filthy_. "Right. Let's clean you up."

He points his wand at the man, and finally Newt finds the presence of mind to actually acknowledge he's there at all. "Graves," he says, a note of warning in his voice.

"You're filthy and you stink and I'm not sharing room with you like this," Graves points out.

The look Newt gives him is a weird hollow mix of incredulous exhaustion, like he can't quite believe him. Graves arches an eyebrow and then, seeing as the man is not saying anything, he casts a cleaning charm on his hair.

That gets a reaction. Newt shoves at him, a pathetic little push that barely makes Graves budge at all, but it's something. It's also annoying.

"Newt," he says, unimpressed. "Wake the fuck up already."

"Oh, how I wish I could," the man answers, and looks away, wavering. He looks like he's about to fall back to sit on the bed, fall back into the brooding stupor he's been in for days.

Graves doesn't let him – just as Newt's knees start bending and he starts going down, Graves grabs the man by the lapels of his dragon hide jacket and then throws him against the nearest wall. It definitely gets a reaction and Newt actually meets his eyes with wide eyed look as Graves pins him there with an arm across the chest, keeping him up right.

"What are you –" Newt starts to say and then he starts to squirm, of course. "Stop it, Graves – just let me be –"

"I've let you be for long enough. You don't eat if I don't put food in your hand, you won't drink unless I force you – you won't even march unless I'm dragging you along," Graves growls. "Now, I know you're throwing a tantrum and that just fine. I'm just going to clean you up too, since you can't manage basic hygiene. So stay still, you fucking _child_."

Newt stares at him, his mouth falling open in a sort of outraged astonishment. Then, something in his face hardens. "Graves – fuck off," he says slowly.

"Oh, such strong words," Graves says mockingly. "You want to try play adult now?"

Newt tries to swipe at him – it's just as pathetic as his push from before was. Graves catches it with ease and the other swipe too, crossing the man's wrists in one hand and pressing them against his chest. "Well I if I knew pissing you off was the way to get signs of life out of you –"

"Can you _not_?" Newt asks, tugging at his wrists. Graves grips them harder and Newt growls at him. Actually _growls_.

Like a _dragon_.

Graves leans back a little at that, astonished. "Merlin – you went completely native with those beasts, didn't you?"

Wrong thing to say. The fight that Newt had managed to muster goes out of him again and he just sags down, held up by Graves' grip on his wrist more than any energy of his own. The almost furious snarl on his face is replaced by a twisting grief. Back into the bleak misery again.

Graves watches him for a moment, hesitating. He has no idea what to do with crying people – sympathy or empathy aren't things people have ever expected of him. Right now he isn't entirely sure how he even ended up here, looking after this wretched madman. Why he even bothers to care about how this lunatic feels when they're in a Merlin damned _war zone_.

And yet if Newt keeps this up, it's going to get him killed. It already would've, on multiple occasions, had Graves not been there.

"Oh, fuck you, Newt," Graves murmurs and releases his hands. Newt stumbles a little, his support gone, before Graves grabs him by the shoulders and pins him back against the wall. And then he kisses the man.

The sharp, shocked breath Newt draws, the way he goes completely still, it's all _intensely_ gratifying.

"Graves," Newt whispers, his voice shaking. "What are you doing?"

"I'll tell you when I figure that out," Graves grumbles because he really isn't sure – and then kisses him again.

He's noticed, off hand, that Newt is by far the most beautiful man he's ever met. Had the man's face been attached to any other personality, Newt would've been utterly devastating with his cheek bones and his chin and his _lips_ … but it's Newt. Newt is anything but that, and all the while being the most beautiful man Graves has ever met he is also the only man Graves is absolutely certain has honestly no damn clue about how he looks.

The only smiles Graves has ever seen on those damn lips had been for the dragons, and they were heart stopping.

That, somehow, makes it so much worse for Graves. Especially since in all the time he's known the man, Newt has been in the process of slowly breaking into pieces, bits of him chipped away by the war he was painfully unsuited for. Now he's holding the shattered remains and they're still beautiful but also frustrating because he wants desperately to know the whole man, and all he has are these remains of him.

"Graves," Newt murmurs, confused.

"You could at least muster up enough of a spine to tell me to stop," Graves growls against Newt's lower lip – he wants to bite it, but that would probably be going little too far.

Newt blinks at him, slow and drunken and bewildered. He shakes his head as if to try and clear it – brushing their lips together, unintentional – and then he frowns. "Are you playing with me?"

He is playing with fire, but considering where they came from, it's really only expected. "Only if you're game," Graves answers.

The Brit eyes him and then shakes his head slowly. Graves swallows and releases him reluctantly – he'd gone too far after all – and then Newt lunges at him.

It really is more an attack than a kiss, clumsy and over reaching and somehow _just like Newt_ – going for too much, too fast, no hesitation in sight. Newt bites at his mouth, awkward and all too hard, a new tension and new energy bubbling in his tightly coiled frame. Graves could soothe it, probably should – he's going to end up with a split lip at this rate – but last thing he wants right now is for Newt to calm down.

He bites back instead, grabbing Newt by the back of his head and worrying at his ridiculously full lower lip. Newt gulps a greedy, shaken breath and his hands shift up to Graves' neck before the kiss turns, awkward shift of angle, still more a fight than a exchange and Graves drinks it all up. The shivery, shaken sigh, the way Newt all but vibrates against him, all of it.

And all of sudden, Graves wants to see him blown apart. He's always known there is a mad sort of energy in Newt – the man rode on a dragon and _loved it_ – but it's always so restrained with people, always held back. It's there now, under Newt's skin and Graves wants to see it all come out, all of it, he wants to _feel_ it.

He pushes at Newt – and Newt pushes back, insistent and clumsy. Graves grins, unable to help himself and Newt makes a impatient noise at the feel of it and pushes closer and their mouths seal together, a proper kiss at last.

They stumble into the bed almost by accident, and it takes some quick thinking on Graves' part to keep them both from banging their heads onto the wall. He takes the hit, goes down first, and drags Newt with him, on top of him and – oh that's nice.

"Graves?" Newt asks, not quite stopping but uncertain.

Graves doesn't answer – he opens Newt's jacket instead, all but wrenching the buttons open before pushing it up. Confusedly compliant Newt shakes it off and then he's back on track, pulling his shirt off all on it's own. And Graves wants to _eat him._

Newt is unsurprisingly pale under his clothes – the tan lines around his elbows and on his neck are pronounced and sharp and they look delicious. The freckles are darker where the sun has bronzed him, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. He has freckles on his arms, his chest – all over his shoulders.

Graves doesn't think, he just gets his tongue all over them.

The Brit jerks with surprise, his entire body tight with tension, and then Graves sinks his teeth into a especially noticeable cluster of spots on his shoulder and he hisses. "Are you _trying_ to give me bruises?"

It's the most he's heard Newt say in days and it makes Graves grin wildly. "That's a marvellous idea," he says and his arms wind around the man's slim waist before he all but latches over his neck. It's salty and bitter with soot and Newt smells heavily of smoke – he's filthy. He's delicious.

"Graves –" Newt breathes and arches against him. Graves' hands roam over his waist to his lower back, greedily taking in the delightful curve his body makes, and then Newt pushing him back and kissing him.

It's a mad scramble then to get rid of their clothes. Graves doesn't really care for his own at this point – he wants to see if Newt has freckles on his hip bones too, on his buttocks, he wants to lick them on his thighs, his knees – but Newt's become relentless and impatient, pushing and tugging at him until Graves' vest is off and his shirt is open and then Newt's hands are flat on his chest, his palms almost scorching hot, pushing him down.

He looks glorious there, astride Graves' lap with his hair a ness, his body bare, with look of wild desperation on his face. Somehow his lips are even more swollen than they usually are, hanging slightly open as Newt pants for breath.

But that's hesitation if he's ever seen it, uncertainty – a little bit of fear too, and embarrassment.

Oh. Well, considering Newt's youth, personality and what's going on in the world… it's hardly a surprise.

Graves pushes up, to sit. He distracts Newt with a kiss and as the Brit melts to it he flips them around, pushing Newt flat on his back below him. Newt looks both alarmed and enthralled at the change even as he struggles to lift up to his elbows – and then he stares, mouth temptingly agape, as Graves takes his wand from the holster still hanging from his open belt – a wordless spell and he's naked.

"O-oh," Newt murmurs, wide eyed, as Graves settles astride his lap with purpose. The Brit falls down, stunned and flushed and obviously, painfully aroused.

Oh, that's not a half bad look on him either.

Graves leans down – he has to kiss him, has to, cannot _not_ kiss Newt with that look of hapless desire on his face. Newt leans up into it desperately, touching him first with a shaky sort of reverence and then with determination, with exploration, hands roaming around his neck, his shoulders, before gripping the back of Graves' neck and pulling him down.

Graves goes down, though it's a shame to crowd Newt – he can't see him this way – but that's fine, he can kiss him and feel him hot and hard against his thigh, can feel his chest heaving against his own. Newt's arms go around his neck like bands and Graves hums, and slowly, languidly, ruts against him.

God but the man runs hot – maybe that was why he got so entangled with the damn dragons, he probably was a half breed himself.

Graves can't wait to feel the full extent of that heat.

With a last, luxurious roll against Newt and last lick across his swollen lips, Graves straightens up. Newt stares at him, eyes wide and face flushed, trying to hold his breath but only ending up heaving even harder. Graves takes a moment to appreciate it, the slim line of his waist, the tightness of his stomach – it's almost too much.

Newt's breath escapes in a slow, desperate whine as Graves casts a spell on his hand, coating it with slick oil. The noise, as sweet as it is, has nothing on the gasp he gives when Graves takes him hand.

He's going to get a Pensieve one day and just put this one memory into it – Newt, squirming under him, back arched and breath stuttering as Graves strokes him slow and firm. It's just once, he doesn't want him to come yet, but Merlin, it's glorious, all of it, and he wants to carry the memory with him to his _grave_.

It takes a moment for Newt to gather himself enough to look at him again and Graves waits. Then, once he's sure he has the man's eyes on him, watching, he reaches back to prepare himself – and yes, that, the way Newt's pupils blow wide, his cheeks flushed and freckles dark, that's what he wants to see.

Newt swallows, breathing shakily, and for once Graves doesn't mind at all that the man isn't meeting his eyes. The attention is just as hot as everything else about Newt – as hot as the burn of his own fingers familiar but rarely indulged in.

Merlin he can't wait to have Newt pushing inside. It would burn him alive and he was going to enjoy every second of it.

Graves' wand falls to the floor and he lets it, shifting forward. Newt holds still all the while he shakes even worse than before, and Graves looks down where he's looking. The angle is awkward or him so he leans back instead and concentrates rather on putting a show for Newt – and judging by he looks of it, it's well received.

Newt moans, a helpless broken sound, and Graves sinks on him. And it does burn, it's been too long, he didn't prepare enough. He'll feel it for days. Merlin, he prays he feels it for days. It burns like a branding iron, and it's _glorious_.

Graves luxuriates in it, sinking deeper, taking it slowly – one slow inexorable push all the way down to the base without pausing. There's an ache, he's really going too fast, but he doesn't care. Newt is a wild thing under him, trembling and clawing at his things with scarred, tanned fingers and Graves feels a little like a god under his fervent, reverent gaze.

After that, moving seems almost like a shame – except it doesn't because he feels Newt scoring through him, and not just that. Whatever miraculous control Newt had over himself is gone and he's pushing back, whining, and thrusting into him – and that's even better.

They can't find a rhythm, they're moving to a different beat. Graves is half tempted to reach for his wand again and just bind Newt down and take what he wants – but then Newt moves under him, shimmying his slim hips against him – getting his feet flat onto the bed.

Dragon riding must be a terribly demanding on core strength – because while Newt is seems willowy and slim, he's covered in wired muscle and when he moves, he does it with _power_. Graves has to take support of the wall, he almost stumbles at the force of it.

"Watch it," he groans, resting his elbow on the wall even as he pushes down, and Newt whines, almost whimpers.

"I _am_ ," the Brit moans and Graves laughs at him breathlessly – it's almost a joke! Newt shakes his head, looking alarmed. His face is gleaming with sweat and his wild, too long hair is clinging to his forehead. He looks good enough to drink. "Graves – Graves, what should I –"

"Fuck, just let me – just let me have it," Graves says and grinds down and - oh, oh, that's good, that's it, the angle. "Never mind – fuck me, fuck me right there, right –"

Newt doesn't need to be told twice. His hands tighten on Graves' hips and he pushes up, the angle close to damn perfect – all Graves as to do is turn a little and the next thrust nails him right down to the core. "Yes, there, right there," he grunts and Newt fucks him right there. "Yes, _yes_ , just – fuck – "

Newt goes still under him, gasping for breath and Graves can't smother the frustrated whine – he's almost there, fuck, if Newt leaves him hanging he's going to fucking _murder_ the man.

Newt pants for breath and sinks down, just for a moment. Then he shimmies his hips again and suddenly sits up – the move shifts him inside Graves and he grunts, less in pleasure and more in alarm and the –

"Fuck –" Graves gapes and it's the sheer shock of it that keeps him from coming right. He can see the individual knobs of Newt's spine, he could count them – and the man has freckles there too, of course, and scars and a _tattoo_ which Graves would've been more interested in if Newt's glorious, glorious lips hadn't just wrapped around the head of his cock.

 _Fuck_ the man is flexible. He's still half buried in Graves ass and he still manages to take good third of his dick in his mouth, apparently without any problem. His fingers grip at Grave's waist and then reach back, all but hugging him. How the man manages to be so utterly filthy and yet _adorable_ at the same time, Graves doesn't know but it's doing things for him.

He's undone at record speed, his hips weakly jerking between Newt's soft cock and his hot mouth and then he's coming, shakily trying to keep himself from choking Newt as he pants through clenched teeth. Newt rears his head back sharply and some of the come hits his cheek and fuck – just, fuck.

"Oh, you son of a –" Graves grates out, and shoves Newt down to lick the freckles clean. Newt laughs, sounding bewildered and Graves kisses his wet, swollen lips and tastes himself. His back aches – his backside _burns_ and his whole body is humming and, fuck.

They kiss until their lips fall slack, until the need to breathe and the heat between them gets unbearable. Graves slides down to lie in his side beside Newt, still panting, and takes the man in. He's even filthier than before, a sweaty heaving mess. Graves kind of wants to lick him clean.

"Well," Newt says breathlessly and pushes his hair from his eyes. "That was…"

"Don't go ruining it now," Graves says, smiling.

Newt's looking a little alarmed now, reality catching up with him – there's incredulity in his eyes when he looks at Graves, like he can't quite believe he's there, and naked, and very well fucked.

"Um," Newt says slowly, licking his already gleaming lips. "Alright," he says then, quiet.

Graves smiles a little wider and reaches out to kiss him again

* * *

 

Newt looks down on Graves, fast asleep on the too small bed.

Newt swallows, looking away. He's bad with people but as far as people went, Percival Graves was one of the better ones. What Newt had ever done to deserve the man's interest, he hasn't any idea. He'd always suspected it was because he just annoyed the man, and Graves couldn't let things he was annoyed with go. Always poking at whatever Newt said, how he said it wrong…

Running a shaky hand over his eyes, Newt looks down at the clothes scattered across the floor. His flight jacket and Graves' neat, dark military coat, utterly mismatched.

He dares a glance at Graves again. He's never been much of a judge as far as looks went, but he knows how people look at Graves – the admiration open and obvious. The man is considered handsome and striking, the natural confidence and command don't probably hurt. What he's doing in Newt's bed, he has no idea.

Don't go ruining it now.

Newt hangs his head for a moment and then stands up. His lower back aches and he's probably going to feel the bruising strength of Graves for days after this – it's going to be torture. He knows he's going to regret it. He's going to miss it.

But he isn't going to ruin it.

Silently, Newt starts putting on his clothes.

He's left the remains of Camp Iron Gut far behind him before morning arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep.  
> HAPPY NEW YEAR AND STUFF AND THINGS


	5. Chapter 5

Graves stomps on the urge to pace along the hall and just stands still, waiting. Around him the hall is quiet, eerily so considering that the building is in the middle of the busiest war camp in the Western Front – the ICW Central Command. It is so important that it had not only been actually build – but it had been build _grandiose_.

It's beyond strange to go from the dry east with it's sun and sand and soot to this cold hall of marble with it's pillars and arch ways. They even have statues on the side, though he knows those are more for extra security than for looks – no other reason to arm them with real cross bows and swords.

The door he's waiting on opens and a witch with ICW insignia on her jacket steps out. "Lieutenant Graves?" she asks and motions to the door. "The general will see you now."

"Thank you, ma'am," Graves says and stops himself from nervously tugging at his coat to make sure it's straight – he knows it's straight, he'd all but starched it for this. He still straightens his shoulders a little before striding forward.

Inside the office is large, approaching absurd even. It's also been decorated with definite eye of order, aiming to impress – everything is neatly lined and in it's perfect place and just a little too big. Tall bookcases between high, arched windows, and maps on the walls in frames, too big to be even useful. There's not only a desk there – and it really is quite the desk – but there are couches and tables on the side, there is even what looks like liquor cabinet. The floor is marble, and the International Confederation of Wizards' logo on the floor is done in silver and gold.

For a war front, it's almost obscenely fine, all of it.

"Lieutenant Percival Graves of the Eighty-one-Fourths MACUSA Cavalry Company, reporting as ordered, sir," Graves says and looks at the general. He's seen the man before, but that had been more than a year ago, and in that year the general had aged at least ten. His hair is going grey at the temples and there are lines on his face that weren't there before.

"Graves," the general nods. He is looking at a map spread across his lavishly large desk, frown marring his freckled brow. "Come here."

Graves goes closer, crossing over the ICW logo and then stepping in front of the desk. The map the general is looking at is one of the Eastern front - Camp Iron Gut is marked on it, along with the retreat they'd taken. Graves' eyes catch the Nomaj village – nameless on the map, only marked down as Rest Stop.

And then he knows why he's here.

"You were the last one to see the Rider, Lieutenant," the General says and looks at him. "I hear you even shared a room in the Muggle village you took shelter in."

There is something hard in the man's voice, amiably though the words are spoken in those oh so trustworthy British Accents, and the hard marble under Graves' feet suddenly feels like thin ice. "Sir," he says slowly. "I did indeed share room with him, in one of the smaller Nomaj houses."

"A little ways from everyone else too, from what I hear," the general comments, watching him keenly, not batting an eye. "Why was that?"

Because if he didn't keep Newt right where he could see him, someone in the camp would've killed him, Graves thinks. Or, if they didn't go that far, they certainly wouldn't have minded beating him black and blue. "Due to the events leading to the evacuation of Camp Iron Gut, there were… issues between him and rest of the camp," Graves says slowly.

The general sighs and runs a hand over his face before straightening his back. "Tell me about the retreat? They reported to me that the Rider was _sullen_ and _uncooperative_. What is your opinion of him?"

"Spellshock, sir," Graves says simply. "He wasn't as much uncooperative as he was down right catatonic."

That makes the other man frown. "Spellshock," he repeats slowly. "He didn't even see battle in the camp, from what I hear."

"He bonded with the dragons and one was shot in front of him – the rest were left to choke in the gas," Graves says tightly. "After that, he just… stopped functioning sir. I had to drag him along for the entirety of the retreat, otherwise he would've just stayed there and let the Inferi take him. And I don't think anyone in that camp would've minded."

The general's eyes narrow that. "Graves," he says slowly, his voice hard. "Watch your words."

"Apologies sir," Graves says but doesn't drop his gaze. "But that's my opinion of him." And of the camp in general.

There is a moment of tense silence before the general leans back a little and folds his arms. "Well, he must've started functioning again for him to have deserted in the first place," he says. "Unless you think differently?"

There's a hint there – and it's not nothing Graves hadn't considered it. Newt was the reason the Camp Iron Gut and it's promise had ever worked, after all – he was the _Rider_ and he had successfully ridden dragons on multiple occasions. It would make sense, for the opposition to try and kidnap him, to get the secret out of him. That was why they kept his identity secret.

But… it would make equally as much sense for Newt to sneak off to kill himself.

"No," Graves says and shifts his hands behind his back where he can squeeze them into tight firsts without notice. "Newt definitely deserted."

The general stares at him. "…Newt?" he asks, and his voice is utterly void of tone now.

Shit.

Graves clears his throat. "I – I met the Rider before Camp Iron Gut – in Belgium. It was…" he trails off. "He introduced himself as Newt then, sir – I swear that's all I know about his identity."

That and everything he'd gleaned from things Newt had avoided, the way he spoke, how he asked certain questions. Newt gave away so much with so few words, he really was the worst person to give a secret identity to. By the time Graves had figured out that no one in Camp Iron Gut knew even that much about Newt, he'd already called him Newt in front of people multiple times.

He'd brushed off it as nickname – "Because next to the dragons, he really is just a newt," – and people in the camp had gotten used to it. No one but him had called Newt that though.

"Lieutenant Graves, do you know Occlumency?" the general asks slowly.

"… enough for covert operations, sir," Graves says, feeling blood drain from his face. Oh shit.

"I will give you the choice of lowering your shields willingly now and letting me have a look – or I will have you imprisoned for suspicion of abetting the enemy, after which you will be taken in for _questioning_ which will not be pleasant for you," the General says, very clear with every words, his proper British accents growing even more pronounced. "Your choice."

Graves opens his mouth and snaps it shut again. _Shit_. "The former, sir, please, but – I," he stumbles over his words and looks down at the desk rather than meeting the man's eyes. "First, I would like to explain if I may."

"Go ahead," the general says coolly.

"Newt and I, we… got involved, sir."

The general says nothing and Graves glances up at him. The man's expression has gone from cold to astonished. "Involved?" he asks. "With _Newt_? I take it you mean – sexually?"

"... yes sir," Graves says, mortified and looks down again. "It was at the Nomaj village – post battle tension, sir, or…" he stops himself from stammering and takes a breath. "It brought him  out of his stupor and is probably factor in his desertion. Sir."

The general gapes at him for a moment. Then, sounding a little incredulous, he tells him, "Lower your Occlumency shields, Lieutenant, and meet my eyes."

Graves does as ordered – and it is just as mortifying as he thought it would be, to have a respected general, a _war hero_ , shift through his mind for his interactions with Newt. Still, he doesn't put up a struggle, lets it all out –the harder he fights this, the worse it will be for him.

The moment back in Belgium what little Graves recalls of it – then, Camp Iron Gut, the vision of Newt washing his face under the fountain, that the first time Graves had looked at the man's lips and felt _thirsty_. The moments after, them eating together, spending evenings playing card or talking together. Graves' actual service in the camp is utterly ignored for every detail of Newt – ending in the bed with Newt staring up at him so reverently when –

The general withdraws from his mind sharply and Graves falters a little, his mind reeling – he can suddenly taste Newt's sweat on his tongue again even though it's been days. It takes him a moment to gather himself again and look at the general – who is facing away now, his eyes covered with his hand. Somehow the man looks even more mortified than Graves feels.

Feeling the need to explain, Graves clears his throat. "Sir," he starts.

"No," the general says. "No excuses, Lieutenant."

Graves falls silent, clasping his hands behind his back again, wondering if he could be court-martialled for this. There'd definitely be repercussions, it would probably go down on his records somewhere, and he'd certainly never live down the humiliation –

"Tell me honestly," the general says. "Do you think Newt left willingly?"

"Yes, sir," Graves says and, well, in for a Sprink, in for a Dragot. "I think he would've walked away from the war long time ago, if it wasn't for the dragons. With the dragons gone…" he shakes his head. "So was his reason to stay."

And Graves alone wasn't reason enough.

The general sighs and then pull out a chair, sitting down with a grimace and rubbing at his forehead. "And do you think he can make it?"

Graves frowns a little at that. "Sir?"

"Can Newt make it on his own? From what I hear, no provisions went missing – all he took were the clothes on his back and his wand," the General says. "Can he make it?"

"I… don't know, sir," Graves answers honestly. He's been wondering the same thing ever since. Maybe, if Newt was in his right mind. But at the same time, it's Newt – the man either has no survival instincts to speak of, or his survival instincts are the best in the world. He rode _dragons_ but he also survived doing it.

The general sighs and looks down at the map. "Do you have… any thoughts on where he might go?" he then asks.

Graves shakes his head. He'd been thinking of little else, and yet… "He once told me he would've liked to work with dragons, if it wasn't for the war, but… in light of what happened…"

"Right," the general says and falls quiet for a moment. "You like him," he then says. "Would you go after him?"

"And hunt him down for you, sir?" Graves asks, little incredulous now. "I'm afraid I might have a conflict of interests there."

Of all things, the general laughs at him. "Not as much as you think," he says and then shifts the map to reveal a folder underneath it. It's titled somewhat strangely as _The Study of Amphibians_ and marked with ICW's logo along with a bold red TOP SECRET.

The general hands it over and with a frown opens it – and there is Newt's face, staring at him from a moving photograph, glancing away from the camera embarrassedly. It's probably taken at least couple years ago, because Newt is smiling in it – and he's wearing the flight uniform Graves remembers from their first meeting, only not so rumbled and still pristine. It was probably picture from when Newt was just assigned to what would eventually be known as the Black Bird Company.

Under the picture there is a file – and top of the file, there is a name.

Newton Artemis Fido Scamander.

Graves looks up in with alarm, and the general smiles wryly. "Newt is my younger brother," Theseus Scamander explains, with some hint of morbid mirth and shakes his head. "Newt isn't technically a deserter – officially he was discharged from the Confederation Forces months ago. And the Rider of the Camp Iron Gut, obviously, isn't him."

Graves mind reels for a moment as the layers and layers of machinations in Newt's life unfold and it starts making sense. The fact that man like Newt had joined the war at all – how could he not with Theseus Scamander for a elder brother? The reason Newt was trusted so much at Iron Gut, even when no one actually knew anything about him, when it was so obvious he was going to fail. And, of course, Newt's desperate, hopeless attempts of actually succeeding at his impossible task…

For one brilliantly twisted moment he understands viscerally just how much pressure Newt was really under.

Then he looks at the general. "You want me to find him for you, sir?"

"Yes," Theseus Scamander says, watching him keenly. "He's my little brother and I think you know just as well as do I than he is not suited for the world out there. I'm very worried for him."

He was also the man who put Newt in Camp Iron Gut in the first place, Graves thinks, and closes the folder. "And if I refuse, sir?" he asks slowly.

"You're part of the MACUSA's forces and not one of mine. It's your right," the general says softly. "Are you going to refuse?"

Graves sets the folder onto the desk and then holds his hands behind his back again. "Yes. I am. I will not go after Newt for you, sir," he says.

"May I ask why not?"

Graves thinks of Newt, shaking apart inside and out, and shakes his head. "Sorry, sir."

Theseus Scamander sighs and clasps his hands together, staring at Graves over his steepled fingers for a long, silent while. Graves holds his ground and doesn't falter and eventually the general nods. "I reckon I don't have to tell how vital it is that all of this remains a confidential," he then says.

"I'm willing to take reasonable oaths," Graves says with a breath.

"Good," Theseus says and stands up again. "You will wait in the hall until I have had them drawn up, shouldn't take longer than half an hour. And Graves?"

"Sir?"

"If you by any chance hear from Newt, tell him…" the general hesitates. "Tell him I'm sorry."

Graves nods mutely.

"Dismissed, Lieutenant."

* * *

 

The war trundles on. Germany applies it's new Inferi tactics ferociously and Graves gets to occasionally read about it in the newspapers. Depending on who prints those papers, the tactics are either revolutionary and brilliant or they are taboo, vile and stomach turning. From his perspective… both are true, in some measures.

No one can deny that Grindelwald, the pioneer of the said Inferi tactics, doesn't know his business. From what Graves reads, he's constantly changing tactics, shifting them to suit his needs – using the dead to their fullest effect and then disposing them and moving on to next patch of disposable bodies to throw at the war. It is as terrible as it is brilliant and sometimes Graves can't help but be a bit awed by it.

Grindelwald doesn't amass the same forces again he used to destroy Camp Iron Gut. The whole thing, while also a military victory, was mostly propaganda – the whole thing was recorded carefully and then reported with great detail for the fullest effect. It's assumed now that there were multiple necromancers involved, at least a dozen, because after the Defeat of Iron Gut the numbers of the Inferi used in battle are limited under fifty.

But they're still using them with increasing skill. There are no more large hoards like at Iron Gut – instead, the Inferi are spread out in smaller numbers. They are disillusioned or given weak, cheap invisibility cloaks and used in sneak attacks. Sometimes they're used in conjunction of gas potions – sometimes they still carry explosives. Sometimes they have neither, and they carry vials of painted water instead as ruse. It comes to the point where no one can easily tell what to expect.

It comes to the point where the Germans and their allies start gaining ground at a rapid pace. It's not just through warfare either – alliances are made and deals struck and what were independent parties in the messy war start lining up with whomever they think will win. The lines, previously muddy, start growing clearer.

And yet, even now, most everyone still don't even know why they're fighting for.

* * *

 

Graves doesn't get many letters. For one, owls aren't used in the war front for obvious security reasons, which makes correspondence slow and awkward and still prone to being stolen. And for two he doesn't have much in way of family and friends and even before the war he made very little efforts to keep up with them. He's not much into correspondence, and everyone back in stateside who know him, know better than write to him unless it is very important.

So, on average, he might get a letter a month from his sister informing him that cousin so and so had died, or from a former school mate currently in MACUSA telling him about some new law change – Rappaport's Law being amended again mostly. Mostly, mail time goes by without him paying much attention, and he only bothers to even notice it if there are newspapers available in languages he can actually read them.

So to have a courier come to him especially with a sealed letter – envelope stamped with ICW logo – he knows it's something special – it even catches the attention of his company, who pause between looking through their own letters to peer at him curiously.

"Bad news, sir?" Jackson asks.

"Here's hoping not," Graves says and then frowns at the courier – young French woman, thin and small and perfectly suited for the speedy looking grey Granian she came on. She's still standing in front of him, even with her letter delivered? "Is there something else."

"I am meant to take your answer back, sir," she says in very good English. "General's orders – I can't leave without it."

"… right," Graves says faintly, while his company exchange looks. "Please wait a moment."

He steps back and opens the envelope to reveal another one – the seal on it already broken – and a note. It's from General Scamander, written in a elegant hand.

> _To Lieutenant Graves,_
> 
> _This, along with a letter for myself, arrived in my offices on the 13th. I'm afraid for security reasons it had to be opened and read, but it has been deemed safe to be delivered, unedited, to your person._
> 
> _Please, do him the kindness of answering, even if it is only to tell him off._
> 
> _With regards, etc,  
>  General Theseus Scamander  
>  International Confederation of Wizards Central Command._

Graves swallows dryly and then takes the nearest seat. Percival Graves reads on the front in Newt's casual slanting hand. The seal he'd put on the letter is in red wax, no symbol on it – it's cracked in the middle. Inside, there is single sheet of paper.

> _My Dear Graves_
> 
> _In hindsight I have come to realise that I must have done you an unkindness, taking off the way I did. I couldn't think clearly then and I know it is no excuse but it is all I have to give. I couldn't think, I could barely breathe and staying would have hurt too much._
> 
> _I suppose you will not think fondly of me now, for the thanks I gave you for caring for me. I am thankful though, and I want you to know that. I am deeply, terribly grateful to you, and of you. You were, for a while, the only piece of solid ground I had left. Thank you for that and for every moment of sanity you forced into my madness._
> 
> _As I have told the General, I will not come back to the war. They may brand me a traitor, they may call me a deserter, I care not – I will not come back, I cannot. I tried, I told myself to go back, if not for the war and for the oaths I made, then to apologise to you, but I could not. All I can is run faster and farther, and now I am on the other side of the world and even so it feels as if I am still not far enough._
> 
> _I won't tell you exactly where I am, for the fear of being found…. but the bird I send to the General will find me if you…_
> 
> _I wouldn't blame you in the least if you didn't._
> 
> _Please know that the memory of you will forever remain the brightest part of my dark years in the War. And I am sorry. I won't ask for forgiveness, I hardly deserve anything less, but I am still so very sorry._
> 
> _Sincerely yours  
>  Newt_
> 
>  


	6. Chapter 6

>   _Newt_
> 
> _For your information this correspondence is being heavily monitored, so, I'm afraid I can't quite express the sentiments want in the ways that I want to express them. Nevertheless, I'll get this out of the way. No, you did me no kindness by leaving without so much as note of explanation, and yes, for a while, I had less than fond words for you. But I am not an idiot._
> 
> _It was long time coming, your desertion. And I don't blame you for it, not really, knowing your circumstances only makes me wonder how it did not come faster. Duty, I suppose._
> 
> _I won't forgive you because your infraction isn't something for me to forgive. You made me no promises. The letter you sent makes up for the note you didn't leave, however, so I will forgive you for that, at least._
> 
> _It's good to know you're, if not well, then at least still alive. I wish you the best, I honestly do. Because, speaking of things you hardly deserve, this war is certainly on top of the list. And while I might have preferred it otherwise… I'm glad you found your way out._
> 
> _Sincerely  
>  _ _Graves_

"In a brown study?"

Newt looks up, automatically and somewhat guiltily folding the sheet of paper and pushing it back into his pocket. "Sorry," he says awkwardly and shifts where he's sitting, so that he isn't quite so hunched over. "I didn't mean to be inattentive."

"It's fine, my boy," the other wizard answers, walking over with a book in hand. "Here we are – have a look."

Newt accepts the book, grateful that for once his hand doesn't shake noticeably. The book in his hand is old, a hand written manuscript rather than a printed book. When he cracks it open, he finds the text nearly illegible. "This is…" he trails off, frowning.

"Quite," the other wizard smiles, taking out his wand and casually commanding a tea set from nearby table to prepare itself. "Notes on the Most Perilous and Terrible Afflictions of the Magical Mind, by Ignotus Peverell."

Newt glances at him at the obvious emphasis on the wording and the elder wizard laughs quietly, not unkindly. "Apologies," he says. "I re-read the book myself just the other day. Afflictions of the mind affecting magic are, while more widely understood these days, not exactly new. It was fascinating, reading the older perspective."

"Right, of course," Newt answers and looks at the book. "But this looks… original. Surely this is invaluable piece of history."

"It's not the original – it's a very old and very well made forgery," his old teacher says and runs a hand along his short beard. "However whoever made this had the original in hand, so the text is accurate to my knowledge, minus some minor errors with dots and dashes and such."

Newt shakes his head, in something like wonder, and looks down at the book again. "Most Perilous and Terrible Afflictions," he murmurs. "Spellshock is fairly new thing, though."

"Not as such," Dumbledore says sadly. "For as long as humans have been able to do magic and get into trouble, the possibility has been there. It's only that this war has made it all too common, and now we have name for it. Ignotus calls it the Wingstroke of Death."

"That's… fairly ominous," Newt says quietly.

"Not, if you consider that he named good half of the afflictions he studied Death's something or other. The man had something of a fixation," the elder wizard chuckles and then floats the teacups over. "Here – camomile with dash of lemon and honey."

"Thank you," Newt says, setting the book down to catch the cup. It gives him the excuse for silence and he uses it to examine the room they're in. In all honesty, it hasn't changed much – few new knickknacks and magical instruments he doesn't immediately recognise, but that's about it.

To think it had only been four years since he'd been a student here, sitting in this same chair, while Dumbledore tried to talk him through his expulsion.

"It looks strange now, doesn't it?" Dumbledore asks gently.

"Pardon, sir?" Newt asks, turning to look at him – at his hands, actually.

The elder wizard smiles and nods at his office. "The past. You've been through a lot – a lifetime's worth of experiences, and more. And now you're here, again – and this place has hardly changed."

Newt frowns, looking down at his tea cup. "Yes," he then says. "But… right now nothing feels normal for me."

"Yes, quite," Dumbledore says and peers at him attentively. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"There's… reasons why I can't," Newt says and frowns. "In all honesty I really shouldn't be here at all, especially not because of this. It is only… I didn't know who else to ask, really."

"I'm glad you did, my boy," Dumbledore says, but he's frowning. "But what about your family? Last I heard, your parents were quite well."

"I'm sure they are, but…" Newt hesitates and then sips his tea before turning his attention to the book. "Ignotus Peverell wrote about other things in here, not just Spellshock?"

"The man had interest with the separation between magic and will," Dumbledore says, letting the subject pass. "His brother Cadmus was a deeply troubled man who, ultimately, took his own life – Ignotus developed quite the interest in figuring out why. His theories and ruminations are, while often wildly inaccurate, quite interesting."

Newt frowns a little and then sets the tea cup down to open the book again, turning the pages in search of anything resembling an index. There wasn't one, really, but separate sections were marked on the book by fabric strings. They weren't in any sort of order – the Death's Wallow was followed by the Animagi Affliction and then Mind in Twain and so on. Dumbledore sat by patiently as Newt glanced over the entries, dismissing them as irrelevant to his case until he ran into.

"Obscurus?" he murmurs, reading few sentences of _a charm suppres'd by the mind of issue innocent of evil_ whatever that meant. "I've heard of that, I think."

"In a history lesson, I suppose," Dumbledore comments, frowning slightly. "It's a term older than even the original book – named by the Romans, naturally. An Obscurial is a child who fights to suppresses their own magic, and has that magic turn on them; it forms into a dark, destructive force that is known as the Obscurus."

"Oh, yes, I remember. Happened a lot during the seventeen hundreds, didn't it?" Newt muses and then shakes his head. "Not really applicable to here."

"No, not quite," Dumbledore says and lifts his tea cup. He considers Newt as he leafs through the book for a while and then speaks, "I understand there are aspects of the war that are, naturally, quite confidential. But speaking of your experiences, even in a roundabout manner, might help."

Newt's shoulders slump a little at that. "I reckon you're right, professor," he admits. "I just… don't know how. It seems so… so utterly ludicrous, to be like this after…"

"My boy, there is nothing ludicrous about this," the older wizard says gently. "People die. It's perfectly natural to be traumatised by it."

"But… it's not the people I ever cared about," Newt murmurs.

There is a moment of silence and he doesn't dare to look up during it. Eventually, Dumbledore sets his own teacup down. "I do correspond with your brother, you know," he says. "It was the hippogriffs, then?"

Newt's fingers shake against the pages of the old, forged, manuscript. Quickly he draws them away, clasping them in his lap. "Yes… in the beginning, it was the hippogriffs," he agrees. "The Ministry appropriated over half of Mother's herd for the war effort. I… can't even remember what came over me, but I suppose I went after them."

No, he did remember what came over him. What came over him was the shame. Theseus had just been named the commander of a task force, it being so early in the war that they hadn't yet needed the higher ranks. He'd been… not quite flaunting the medals, and everyone was so proud, congratulating him, telling him he'd do them all proud.

Newt had just been expelled from Hogwarts. It was school term and he was at home, doing nothing, mainly feeling sorry for himself – missing a girl who in the end didn't even…

Newt clenches his hands and shakes his head. It doesn't matter. "There were other factors, but I joined with the idea of becoming part of the Hippogriff Cavalry if I could. I had heard that in the war they didn't care so much about school records, that everyone got trained with the same spells and tactics nevertheless, and if you passed that, you were in."

"And you passed," Dumbledore says gently.

"Barely, but yes," Newt agrees with a mirthless smile and shakes his head. "I never did see my Mother's hippogriffs. The one I was assigned with was a different strain – a beautiful piebald. We trained together for two months before we were assigned to the Hippogriff Cavalry Company Twenty-Thirds. I named her Tessa," Newt pauses there and then frowns. "She… died two years into my service. She and everyone else in my company."

They'd named his company the Black Birds after that and as far as he knows, it hadn't been re-established.

"How long were you in the ICW military?" Dumbledore asks quietly.

Newt thinks about it. "I joined… five months after I was expelled from Hogwarts, I think," he says. "So… about four years."

Dumbledore stares at him for a moment, an unreadable look on his face. "Newt, my boy," he says softly and sadly.

Newt shrugs and doesn't meet his eyes as he pushes on. "Anyway, after the Twenty-Thirds was disbanded, I floated about for a while, not really part of any company," several months he can't remember much about because he had that lovely, unending bottle of Dragon Fire to keep him company, "until I got my assignment. It was my last."

Newt frowns a little. "I didn't even see any battle in my last assignment – it was almost a year, and… it was with creatures again. And they died."

Dumbledore doesn't say anything, just watches him sadly.

"I deserted," Newt confesses quietly. "I left. I couldn't…. I couldn't anymore."

And he still can't. Can't sleep through a night without nightmares, can't think back without going into a panic, or just shutting down like a Muggle machine out of power. Can't hold a wand without his hand shaking. And the thing that keeps _happening_ …

"If the spellshock was properly diagnosed, I'm sure there had never been any need for desertion," Dumbledore says gently and then lifts a hand. "No, I'm sorry, that is terribly unfair of me."

"No, it's nothing I haven't thought myself," the younger wizard sighs and then unclenches his hand. The tremor isn't as bad as it is on some nights, but it's still there, ever present. "It's not as if it is hard to spot – I figured it out two days after I left. I could have gone back, but… at that point it was far easier to keep going. So I did."

"Hmm," Dumbledore agrees and steeples his hands. "And do you have other symptoms?"

"… yes," Newt sighs. "That's why I am trying to fix it – if it was just the tremor, I would be fine, but… my magic."

"It has started backfiring on you," Dumbledore guesses.

"I… yes," Newt says again and then pulls up his sleeves. Thanks to repeated applications of Dittany, the burns don't actually hurt – but the scars are at this point permanent. "I've put my wand away," Newt admits. "I can't do much with it, right now. Nothing good anyway."

His old teacher watches him, examining the burns around his wrists and all along his arms. "My boy," he says gently. "You need a Mind Healer, not a research project."

Newt bows his head. He's painfully aware of what it says about his mental state that his own magic is trying to burn him alive, and it's nothing good. "I can't let… I'm a deserter and Theseus is looking for me, I can't," he says, shaking his head. "As it is, I haven't the money for that sort of thing."

"If you went to your parents…"

Newt shakes his head sharply. "No, I can't." With his luck he'd set the house on fire and the barn too and get the rest of his mother's Hippogriff's killed. If he wasn't carted off to a court-martial and sentenced a traitor, which he might very well be considering the fate of Iron Gut.

The professor sighs and then looks up. There is a knock on the window that makes Newt almost jump, but it is only an owl with a letter tied to it's leg. "Bit late for mail," Dumbledore murmurs and gets up.

Newt fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt for a moment and then pulls them back down to cover the burns. He reaches first for the tea cup but in the end takes Ignotus Peverell's book instead, and starts leafing through it for the section on Spellshock – or Wingstroke of Death.

"Newt," Dumbledore says. "Seems like this is for you, not I."

Newt looks up and the letter is immediately recognisable – the ICW logo on the seal and Theseus usual green ink on the envelope. "Oh," Newt murmurs and accepts the letter, already feeling the trepidation he felt every time he got a letter from Theseus. "Thank you. Do you mind if I…?"

"Not at all – I can give you privacy if you wish," Dumbledore offers.

"No, I'm sure it's fine," Newt says and breaks the seal.

> _Dearest Little Brother_
> 
> _There is no kind way to put this, and believe you me I tried to come up with one… so I will just have to come out and say it._
> 
> _On the 31st of September, Lieutenant Percival Graves of MACUSA Eighty-one-Fourths Cavalry Company was wounded in battle against the German Inferi troops. His current whereabouts are unknown and as of 1st of October, he is considered Missing in Action. It is however suspected he's been taken captive as Prisoner of War by the German Magical Military Forces, as his body wasn't to be found on the field._
> 
> _I'm so sorry I can't tell you more, brother. The battle was chaotic and over quickly and I can't put more detailed information concerning it on a letter. I know it's little solace, but we are doing what we can for him and hopefully, if he is still alive, he may come home – once the war ends if not sooner._
> 
> _I hope you are well_
> 
> _Sincerely  
>  Theseus_

* * *

 

Graves looks up blearily as the metal cell door is opened, shining light at last into the dark metal box he's been thrown inn. There's a soldier there, a German one judging by the looks of his coat, who despite the fact that Graves is all but covered in magically restrictive metal is holding a wand on him.

"American," the man says. "Get up."

Graves gets up, wincing as the barely healed wound pulls on his side. "Where are my men?" he asks, making sure to keep his voice level. "Are my men alive?"

"No questions," the German wizard says and motions at him with his wand. "Out."

Graves walks out, blinking blindly against the light outside. He hasn't seen anything outside the cell since he was captured – even when they'd decided to keep him from bleeding to death, the healer had came to the cell and Graves had never been let out.

He's fairly sure that when he'd been loaded into the damn box, it had been on the ground. They're inside a building now – a spacious hall with metal floors walls and ceilings that remind him of nothing as much as a Nomaj airplane hangar. The windows show image of clouds and sky, but that's probably just an illusion.

It's probably underground. Most German bases are.

"Forward," the soldier commands and Graves moves. He doesn't bother hiding his interest as he looks around, taking in the hall, the people there – the devices. There are number of Nomaj vehicles in the place – motorcycles and couple of trucks and such, which some wizards are poking and prodding at with their wands, taking them apart. There are Nomaj weapons on tables, dismantled and marked with tags.

Then he's out of the hangar like hall and they're going down a corridor, metal doors on each side and stairs leading up or down every now and again. It's a big place, Graves muses. Easily big enough to house hundreds of wizards, if not more.

They go up a set of stairs – and suddenly there is natural light. Graves stares, blinking against the brightness, at the windows. They are on what looks like about a Quidditch's field's worth of open space, with metal ceiling above and windows on all sides. They all show the same image – clouds against clear blue sky.

They're not illusions.

"Well, now," a voice says and Graves startles, turning. There is a wizard there in dark coat, pale hair pushed back neatly. On his coat he has the pins of a general of the German Magical Military Forces. "You'd be our American guest, then. Your name."

"Lieutenant Percival Graves," Graves introduces himself slowly, trying to take in as much information, trying to figure out who this is. He could recognize most of the high ranking enemy officers by sight, having seen their faces on propaganda posters and newspapers, but this man is unknown to him. His accent is very close to British too, which is strangely unnerving. "And you?"

The wizard smiles and walks closer in slow, measured steps. "Graves – related to one of the Original Twelve, I suppose? Long and distinguished Auror ancestry," the man says and then looks Graves up and down. "Yes, I do believe I recognize you," he then says with satisfaction. "You were at Iron Gut. I remember you because you were the only one on a broom."

Graves smothers his reaction and then takes the man in a bit more closer. The man is… paler than he would have assumed, strangely enough.

"Yes, you are the one," Grindelwald says and then, nonchalantly and wandlessly, conjures two chairs. "You may go," he says to the soldier who escorted graves and with a down right Nomaj-like salute, the man turns and leaves them. "Please, take a seat," the man says, even as he sits down himself. "I have many questions."

"And why would I answer them?" Graves asks with a slightly confused frown.

"Because I am going to ask nicely," Grindelwald says with a smile, and then conjures a table between their two chairs, similarly wandless. A snap of the man's fingers, and there is a pot of coffee with cups and assorted snacks on top of it. "Please, Lieutenant," the man says and motions.

After a moment, Graves takes a seat. "I'm not going to tell you anything," he says slowly.

Grindelwald's smile widens a little. "We'll see," he says, even as he pours the coffee. "Though, to be frank, there is little new information you could give me. Iron Gut was a failure and everyone knows it – the dragon breeding program is never going to work. Every time it's attempted, it's just waste of everyone's time, entertaining though it might be."

Graves frowns at the man and then at the cup Grindelwald offers him. "I promise you," Grindelwald says with some amusement. "If I want to kill you, poison will be the last tool I use."

"… I don't know about that. It was the _first_ tool you tried to use, as I recall," Graves says and nods at the cup. "Veritaserum?"

"Oh, how sharp of you," Grindelwald says with a smile, and then sips the cup himself. "There, now we can both be dosed," he says licking his lips and offers him the cup again. "I have to warn you, though, it's quite strong."

Graves frowns and then shakes his head and lifts his shacked hands, accepting the cup.

It is strong – the Veritaserum hits him like shockwave and leaves staring rather blearily at the man across the table. "You're a fucking genius," Graves says and then grimaces. Shit.

"Oh?" Grindelwald asks, sounding delighted. "Oh, this is going to be interesting. Do tell me, Lieutenant, what did you think of how I took down Camp Iron Gut?"

Graves grinds his teeth and breathes slowly in and out. "Veritaserum doesn't force you to speak," he says, and it's the truth. "Only to speak the truth when you do. It can be evaded."

"Yes, quite right, well done indeed," Grindelwald says. "But that was a triple dose, so it is going to be quite difficult to resist, I think. Especially with repeated questioning. So come now, tell me, what you think of my tactics?"

"I think – if you didn't use Inferi, you'd win the war," Graves says and then inhales sharply to stop the words there. "Where are we?" he asks, just to break his own stride.

To his surprise, Grindelwald answers. "We are in my base. The LZ 49 – she's a zeppelin," he explains with definite pride. "Magically enhanced and warded of course, quite well hidden from view. Funny thing actually – did you know you can make a vehicle Unplottable, if it is big enough?"

"…no, I did not know that," Graves answers, more than a little incredulous. "Did you just dose yourself too, you madman?"

"Yes," Grindelwald admits without hint of concern, looking actually a little pleased. "Why not? If this conversation doesn't go my way, I will simply kill you and be done with it. So, my dear Lieutenant," he smiles even wider. "Let's be honest with each other."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going with Harry’s Interpretation of Grindelwald here;
> 
>  
> 
> _As a young man, Grindelwald had golden blond hair and a "merry, wild" face. Harry Potter thought he had "a Fred and George-ish air of triumphant trickery about him"_


	7. Chapter 7

The Thestral lands on the courtyard with a heavy thud while Newt leans back and away form the impact, riding it out. It's probably the speed of his landing – and the fact that he has a second Thestral following him – that has the stable hands running out to attend to him. Speed usually means haste, haste is bad in a war zone.

"Sir, allow me," the closest attendant says and then stops, hand held out to accept reins that aren't there. "Um, sir?" 

Newt slides off the Thestral's bony, saddleless back, and then pats the horse's side to catch it's attention. He throws his head at the stables and clicks his tongue, motioning, and Thestrals both claw at the courtyard's neat cobblestone before turning to head there.

"Go on, they've been flying non stop for two days, they're tired and terrible in need of pampering – but don't try to put saddles or reins on them," Newt says even as he strides towards the entrance to the Central Command building itself. "They'll just bite you if you do!"

"But sir – how in the blazes did you even –"

The last of the stable hand's astonishment goes unheard as Newt steps into the building. The ICW Central Command is just as it was, close to two years or so ago when he last saw it – altogether too fine and grand for the war, with gold and glass gleaming everywhere, and with magically expanded space that, really, could serve no other purpose than to impress.

Theseus is there too – striding down the stairs towards him with his great coat's tails flapping behind him. "Newt!" he calls and hurries over. "Merlin's balls. Never thought I'd see you here again," and then he's hugging Newt which, really, he could've done without.

Newt squeezes his hands into fists and bears it. "Me neither, Theseus," he admits and then steps back when Theseus' grip loosens enough. There are people, soldiers and attendants and support staff, staring at them. Staring at Theseus, really. "I, ah… I apologise for –"

"No, never mind that now," Theseus says, clasping him by the side of his neck. "Just – let me have a look at you."

It dawns on Newt, somewhat belated, that it's well over an year since they last each other – and Camp Iron Gut lies between them, making the months seem longer and bleaker still. There is honest concern and care on his brother's face and it startles Newt a little. After everything, he'd forgotten… that before Theseus was his general, he was his brother.

"You've lost weight," Theseus comments quietly.

Newt forces a twitch of his lips that might be mistaken for a smile and avoids his eyes. "Healthier diet," he offers. "Military rations were always a bit… too much for me."

Theseus doesn't take the branch, and he doesn't smile. "I know how you are, brother," he says, his tone unhappy. "You haven't been eating, have you?"

"I'm fine, Theseus," Newt says and shakes his head. "And I'm not here to be lectured by you – can you please tell me…" he trails off and looks at his brother. "Do you have anything more than was in that letter?"

Theseus meets his eyes and then sighs, patting the side of Newt's head compassionately. "Come on, my office," he then says and all but steers Newt around – as if thinking if he doesn't, Newt will run off.

Honestly, he might've, if it wasn't for Graves. To be back here, surrounded by men and women in inform, with the glint of Theseus' pins in the corner of his eye… the very concept of _military_ is like tangible thing in the atmosphere here and it presses down on him heavily in ways he hadn't even realised it could. There are few places he'd like to be less than here.

But answers are here.

Theseus leads him all the way through the massive command building and eventually to his ridiculous office. Newt fiddles with his shirt cuffs as Theseus walks around the massive desk and feels terribly out of place. He's in civilian clothes, his flight leathers long since sold for barely half their worth, and for all the times he's been here, he's never really belonged.

Just going back to Hogwarts had been a little like being called in front of a teacher for misbehaving and this is so much worse. And sure, Theseus has always played favourites with him, been down right nepotistic with him, and it eased the terrible strain somewhat… But that doesn't change the fact that Theseus every inch the general… and Newt has never really been much of a soldier.

"How did you get here so fast, Newt?" Theseus asks while taking a seat.

"I was close by," Newt admits and looks at the desk between them. "Graves?" he then asks, and hears his voice waver.

Theseus takes out a folder. He doesn't open it, though, looking up to Newt instead. "You do understand that this is… unusual," he then says, very serious. "You left, Newt, and not in the best of circumstances. It's not common knowledge and technically the Rider of Iron Gut isn't even on the books… but you're still a deserter."

Newt lowers his gaze. "Theseus, I… I'm sorry. I know it's not worth much, but I would have been useless to the cause if I stayed," he admits. "I have third stage spellshock."

His brother pauses at that. "Third stage," he repeats slowly and then leans back against his throne like chair. "Newt, please tell me you had the good sense to get help."

Newt breathes in and out. "I know there will be consequences for my desertion, I'm… willing to face them," he says. "Will you tell me about what happened to Percival Graves? Please?"

Theseus watches him for a moment and then sighs and looks down at the folder. "His company, the Storm Hawks, have been our front line defence and offence against the new Inferi tactics," he admits. "Lieutenant Graves is the most experienced officer when it comes to those damn things, starting with Camp Iron Gut, and he's proven adept at coming up with quick solutions to the new tactics."

"Theseus," Newt says impatiently.

"I'm telling you this so that you understand – this is no small issue for us, either," Theseus says. "Lieutenant Graves is due to promotion two times over for what he's been accomplishing but we haven't dared to give them, because we needed him on the field. And his capture can't have been anything less than premeditated – Grindelwald set up a trap for him especially. He didn't bother to take anyone else, just Lieutenant Graves"

Newt swallows. "I… didn't know," he murmurs. He'd been following the events of the war as much as he could bear, reading the papers when he happened to encounter them, but he only knew the bare bones of what was going on in the war anymore. Grindelwald was a name that was going around more and more, however.

He didn't know Graves was fighting against him. He isn't sure how he feels about it – it's a mixed thing of grief and odd gratefulness that he can't explain. Even he, with his sparse knowledge, knows who took Camp Iron Gut. And maybe the whole blame for that disaster can't be laid at the feet of one man, but… Grindelwald had attacked them. That was the start.

And while Newt had fled, Graves had stayed and fought. It probably wasn't for revenge, and yet…

Theseus hums and then turns the folder over to him. "Truth be told, that is the extend we know. Grindelwald has proven… damn illusive. We have no idea where the man's base is, if he even has one – we have no idea where and when he will attack next. Somehow, he's shuffling around hundreds of Inferi all across the Western Front, all without anyone noticing."

"So… you have no idea where he is," Newt says quietly.

"No," Theseus admits. "Your Graves has a bit of a reputation of his own, these days – and if Grindelwald kills him, it will go onto the papers. So far, there's been nothing, so we're hopeful that he's still alive."

But not that they could get him back without a fight – or maybe, without winning the war altogether. Newt looks down at the folder and opens it – and there is Graves' face, staring up at him. And sure, Newt has hardly forgotten it – how could it – but it's different seeing it in a photo, rather than in his own mind.

The man in the picture is giving him a face, something between a scowl and challenge. How very like him.

Theseus lets out a interested noise. "You know, the first time I met your Graves, it was in this very same office," he says. "I showed him your folder – and he made that exact face."

Newt closes the folder, his fingers shaking. Graves was here, Graves had met his brother… "I know it must be too much to ask, but… is there anything I can do?" he asks pleadingly. "Theseus… I have to do something. Please."

His brother eyes him curiously. "Didn't you just tell me you have stage three spellshock?" he asks and leans back again, fingers steepled. "And that you're useless? Hm?"

Newt swallows and looks down, hands squeezing into fists at his side. He'd struggled for a while with coming back, he'd known how pathetic it all was, how little he could do. He'd brought his wand, sure, but it's wrapped in dragon hide and he hasn't properly touched it in days. Last time he had, he'd almost lost a finger.

But Graves is… Graves is all that's left.

"I'll do anything," Newt says, his voice a little choked now. "Please."

"Newwie…" Theseus says softly, and the word is almost like a blow. Newt almost steps back and Theseus sighs. "If I say no, will you go after him yourself?" he then asks.

Newt considers it. He has no idea what he would do, but his heart clenches at the thought of not doing anything. He can't just sit back and do nothing. Not with this. "Maybe," he admits.

"I could have you imprisoned, I have every cause to," Theseus says. "Lock you away for the rest of the war. It would be for your own good, you know."

"Then do it," Newt says and looks up. "Do it and have fun telling Mother as to where I've been all the years it will inevitably take for the war to end."

"Don't talk to me about Mother – it wasn't just me you deserted," Theseus snaps. "They've been writing me almost daily for any word of you and now I can't even tell them that you're on secret assignment. Why didn't you go home, Newt?"

"Because you would've found me, and brought me back here!" Newt shouts. "You would've put me in another Iron Gut and I couldn't – I couldn't bear the thought. It would've been too much, Theseus."

His brother stares at him in astonishment. "Newt – do you really think I would've…" he trails off. "Why do you think I put you in Iron Gut in the first place."

Newt shakes his head. "Because you wanted a dragon cavalry?" he asks.

"Wanted a – Newt, the dragon cavalry was never ever supposed to work," Theseus says slowly, his face slack with confusion. "It was only propaganda, to keep confidence in ICW up – to keep our supporters _supporting_ us. It was a publicity stunt."

"Yes – and then I rode on Kirmizi for the first time," Newt says and refuses to look at him. "That changed the tone of the whole thing fairly swiftly, didn't it?"

Theseus shakes his head slowly. "I put you in that camp because I knew you were hurting, and I thought it would help you, or at least distract you," he says softly. "Newt, you spend nearly four months inside a whiskey bottle, you came so close to drinking yourself to death it terrified me. The Iron Gut program was just gaining traction and I knew you'd love the damn beasts."

Newt frowns, his hands clenching and unclenching and _shaking_. "And I did," he admits and his voice shakes even worse than his hands. "And then I watched them die."

Theseus stares at him and Newt turns away, to wipe at his eyes. "Graves," he says shakily. "Graves is all I have left from – from all of this that is still good. I don't even know if he… he might hate me, I don't know, but I can't lose him too, Theseus."

"Oh bloody hell, Newt," Theseus sighs and rubs at his forehead.

"Please let me _do_ something," Newt begs. "Theseus, please."

Theseus doesn't answer for a long whole, just rubs at his forehead and breathes slowly. When he finally looks u, Newt feels a little steadier, and yet no less strained. "You're going to go, and see the Mind Healers," he then says. "And you're going to cooperate with them. And I will talk with them afterwards and then I will decide what we can do."

"Theseus," Newt objects.

"No. I've done you enough harm," his brother says. "This is non-negotiable. You will see the Mind Healers and then we can talk about what happens afterwards."

* * *

 

"Do you know why this war started in the first place?" Grindelwald asks, watching with a mild smile, while Graves grits his teeth and sets the man's table.

"Yes," Graves answers curtly,

"Oh really? Do tell then, I am oh so curious."

Graves smothers the urge of trying to grab a knife to try and stab the man and instead finishes setting down the cutlery. "Because wizards have been fighting an defensive war for hundreds of years now, and it had to boil over at some point."

"Oh, very good, very good indeed, full marks, Percival," Grindelwald says and takes the wine glass Graves had set down earlier. He holds it meaningfully and with smothered sigh Graves goes to get the bottle, his chains clinking the whole way.

"Defensive war," Grindelwald says with great satisfaction while Graves pours the wine for him. "Not many think of it that way, sadly, but that's what is, the Statue of Secrecy – lifetimes worth of defensive warfare. We retreat into the shadows and occasionally launch a guerrilla campaigns to make bit of ground for ourselves, for our magical communities, for our hidden streets and unplottable little villages… but mostly we hide."

Grindelwald sips the wine while Graves puts the cork back in the bottle. The German commander hums in pleasure and leans back, turning to look at him. "We're so very used to being scared, us wizards. Lifetime of shying away and then covering out tracks when we let something slip, hiding and hiding and hiding from the Muggles. So, so scared are we, that we didn't even know how to be brave anymore."

Graves says nothing. The man is in a rambling mood – he would need no urging to keep going and he doesn't this time either. "Fear is what started this war – and a spark indignation, I suppose," Grindelwald hums. "I went to see it, did you know? The site where they died. Quaint little town, nothing unusual about it – until it found itself between two Muggle fronts, and they bombed it to hell and back."

Graves frowns. The Favreau family, the first wizarding casualties of the Nomajes Great War. They were a mixed family – Nomaj mother and wizard father, with three or so children. It had been all over the papers, when it had been found out.

"Do you recall what they call it?" Grindelwald asks. "The aftermath, the very first call to action."

"All out defence," Graves murmurs and he can't quite keep disrespect from his voice.

"All out defence," Grindelwald agrees, smiling. "The French went on _all out defence_. I laughed for days when I read that, good grief, never seen anything so ridiculous in my life. And then of course, it went oh so brilliantly wrong."

That was how the war started. German Nomajes killed French wizards in their bombing, and then French started their somewhat ill-conceived defensive campaigns, telling their people to protect themselves from the onslaught of German Nomajes. That then had sparked distrust towards German Wizarding community as well – and, of course, the German wizards had to act on that.

"All out defence," Grindelwald murmurs, shaking his head as he roils the wine in his glass. "So much fear for already so fearful a people, and all the while Muggles kept on bombing cities along the boarders. More wizarding casualties, more fear, more distrust and eventually…"

The man snaps his fingers theatrically and food appears on the plates Graves had set. "Boom," Grindelwald says and laughs softly. "And people wonder why. We're a species that's been primed for explosion for centuries. It's a wonder why it didn't happen before."

Graves shakes his head at the theatrics and Grindelwald sets his glass down. "And all this… Because of the Statue of Secrecy. Because even now, even after all this time, all the advancements we've made, all the things we've mastered since then… we're still so, so scared of being burned."

"All things considered, it's not entirely unreasonable fear these days," Graves comments, unable to help himself. "The Nomajes have mastered a whole new level of destruction now." A single precise air raid on a could take out whole wizarding communities, with the Nomajes new weapons

"Very true," the German agrees and takes a knife in his hand. He makes a slicing motion in air "Their bombs accomplish in an instant more than hundred pyres could do in a month. But would we fear them so, if they were our right too?"

Graves frowns and looks at the man uncertainly. "I don't follow," he says slowly.

"Something to think about little further then," Grindelwald says with an enigmatic smile. "I'm done with the day's lessons, You're dismissed, Percival."

Graves grits his teeth and only nods. He's almost used to the restriction the chains around his ankles put on him, the way he cant lift his hands properly, but it still grates, the long walk from Grindelwald's office to the cell block where he, the only Prisoner of War on board the Zeppelin, was housed alone.

There's a German witch waiting for him there.

"Done with himself for the day?" she asks, looking him up and down. "We've got work for you."

"Joy," Graves mutters and looks ahead. His work today is, apparently, clothing maintenance – which at least is little bit better than _laundry_. There is a wand waiting for him on the table – not his own, sleek ebony wand, but a short stub of a stick, barely five inches in length.

Graves holds out his hands and the witch removes his shackles, letting them clatter to the floor, still attached by a chain to the shackles around his ankles. Graves rubs at his wrists and approaches the table, looking down at the stubby wand with disgust.

He'd heard about the German POW camps and the _inmate wands_ they'd came up with to make use of the witches and wizards they'd captured, but this wand was the first of it's kind he'd actually seen. The wand is next to useless, barely strong enough for house hold charms and even those need strong, verbal, spell casting. It's humiliating, using the thing.

"Get to it," the witch commands, with her own, proper, wand aimed at him.

Graves grips the pathetic wand in his left hand and, gritting his teeth, gets to work repairing the torn, broken clothes. Well, if nothing else, these are spells he's good at, so he doesn't have to expend more attention to the task than is absolutely necessary. This is the only time he's allowed magic – he's not about to waste it.

In the cover of shuffling the clothes around, Graves stretches out the fingers of his right hand and _pulls_.

Unseen, a button he's placed by the wall at the guard's feet shifts an inch.

Graves keeps his eyes down and doesn't let anything show on his face. Instead he spreads a pair of trousers and starts patching the tears on the knees, muttering reparos viciously.

Almost there, he thinks to himself. Almost there.


	8. Chapter 8

 

There were two ways of dealing with something like spellshock. There was the long and hard and healthy way – and then there was the quick, unhealthy way. That was the one Newt took.

He supposes when he can think straight again, he will regret the decision. As it is, he feels a vague, half formed horror somewhere in the back of his mind now, back where it had been previously hidden by all of his fear and worrying, and it rings hollow but it's there and real and not without cause. He probably has done something blindingly stupid to himself here.

But his hands no longer shake and he can hold a wand without fear. "Lumos," he casts quietly and there is not a lick of flame – his wand tip lights up as it should. The light, he thinks, is even a little brighter than before.

The Mind Healer scans his mind again and again, humming to herself. "Well," she says, and she's not quite disproving, but definitely not approving either. "It does seem a little less crowded in here. How do you feel, Mr. Scamander?"

"Calmer," Newt admits honestly and that's a part he likes. He'll regret the rest, but the calm is like gentle breath on his face after months on end of standing in middle of a flaming hurricane. "Everything is… quieter. It doesn't seem to shout at me anymore."

"Hmm, sounds about right," she agrees, running her wand tip over his forehead in a slow, vertical line. It feels like she's sealing the incision though, of course, there were no actual cuts. "Alright. I have couple of tests for you now, and I need you to be very honest with me with these, alright? It's just few moral, logical and philosophical problems and puzzles."

"Alright," Newt agrees, and she hands him the first paper with the first tale in it. Simple choice, who would he rather safe from a burning building and why, a child of two who has yet to show their magic, of old Potions Master on the brink of developing a cure for Dragon Pox.

The other questions are similar, testing his emotional thought processes. He'd answered a whole slew of similar questions before the operation, so this would be the test to see how much he had changed because of it.

Newt doesn't think his answers to the moral and philosophical tests have much changed, and his logic should be as it is – but there is one test. It's about him carrying incredible valuable documents, absolutely vital to the war – would he risk himself in helping his fellow soldiers in battle they're sure to lose, or would he keep on carrying the documents back?

Last time in similar question he'd chosen the documents – this time he chooses the people.

"Interesting," Healer Daisy Pomfrey says, marking something down on his file. "Why is that?"

Newt frowns, trying to think why he'd answered differently last time. "Previously I was worried of losing the documents, and that my involvement in the situation wouldn't help in the end and that I'd only add myself to the death toll," he says. "I… don't see it as big of a risk now. There is no way of saying if I could help or not – but I know I lose all the battles I choose not to fight and if I start worrying about it, I just suffer the whole thing twice, don't I?"

The healer eyes him and then nods and marks it down. "I have to admit, this is fascinating," Pomfrey admits. "I've done medical Obliviations to… hundreds of patients during this war. They all have different effects on it and yours is very interesting. Your thought process is clearly cleaner now, much more straight forward. I'm afraid it will affect your personality in the long run."

Newt nods and runs a hand over his forehead, imagining he can feel the bits that have been removed. Camp Iron Gut, he thinks, lot of that place. He remembers the dragons but not their names, if they had any, doesn't remember his involvement with them, though he remembers arguing about it with Theseus… The Twenty-Thirds he remembers clearer, but not how it ended – though again, he remembers talking about it later. The Obliviations are like scattered pockets of blackness in his memory, bits and pieces of events missing.

He's going to regret loosing his memories of the dragons, he knows that. But right now he's just glad he can breathe again.

"So, Mr. Scamander, here is what's going to happen from now on," healer Pomfrey starts. "For the next couple of days, your mind will settle and start to recover from the Obliviation. It might develop false memories to cover the ones you lost, so, if you can write a list of things as you know them considering the Obliviation, so later on you can tell what is true and what you mind made up to cover the holes."

"Alright," Newt nods. "I'll keep a diary of it.

"Good, that should help later on," she agrees. "In about a week you might experience bout of irritation, even anger over what happened to you – that's normal stage of the healing, and it can be directed at anything. Usually people find someone to blame, that's simply how people work, and due to the war I suggest you try ad blame the enemy, and not your friends and allies. Don't blame yourself if you can avoid it. You're just trying to heal and there is nothing wrong with that."

Newt frowns but nods. He's so very good at blaming himself though. It comes so very naturally to him. Or it did anyway – he doesn't quite know if his mind works that way anymore.

"After that, there will be a month of settling in. A lot of your brain has just been wiped clean, which means there is a bit of free real estate up there," Pomfrey says with a quick, mirthless smile. "You will develop new habits, latch onto new knowledge. Lot of people who have gone through medical Obliviations – and Obliviations in general – experience intense bouts of inspiration for the first month, possibly lasting as long as a whole year."

"What sort of inspiration?" Newt asks curiously.

"That depends entirely on the person. One witch I did this to took up wood carving week later – she now wants to be a sculptor when the war ends, and she had very little interest in arts before," Pomfrey says. "Another man, who did quite bit of writing even before, started writing elaborate poetry. Then there is one witch who, after her Obliviation, developed into quite the tactician from what I hear. It seems to depend on what catches your interest."

"Hm, something to look forward to," Newt says. "Is there anything else?"

"Eventually, you stop feeling _Obliviated_. Your mind heals, the holes are covered up and everything will be as normal," Pomfrey predicts. "Time fades out memories, that's just a fact of how human mind works. Eventually, you will think nothing of it. But it will take few years."

She turns to the file. "In the mean while, you will have at least two sessions a week with a mind healer for the next two months, if your duties permit it. Tell me, do you feel fit for duty?"

Newt considers it seriously, taking his wand and turning it in hand. He runs his thumb over the seam where it had been snapped when he'd been expelled and then nods. The old grief, and the confused sense of betrayal is still there, but the success and triumph he felt when he finally fixed the thing, that's stronger now. He rather likes it that way.

"Yes, I feel fit for duty," he says.

Pomfrey eyes him seriously for a moment. "Yes, I feel the same," she then says and stands up. "Give me a moment to sign your release papers and draw up your mind healer schedule and then you are done."

Newt nods and waits, idly swinging the wand in his finger before rolling it over his thumb and catching it again between his thumb and forefinger. He used to do tricks, or try to anyway, with it when he was in school, same as every other boy in class. He'd never been that good with them, more likely to drop his wand than anything.

He hasn't tried to do wand tricks in years.

Pomfrey returns with two sheets of paper – one to be handed to Theseus, other for Newt to hang onto. "Now, it's expected that you miss most of these," Pomfrey says. "Such is the reality of war – so when ever you have the time and when ever you are in a camp with mind healer present, show them this. And when ever you are at the Central Command, make sure to visit the healers as soon as you can."

"Yes, of course," Newt agrees and puts his wand away again before accepting the papers. "Thank you, Healer Pomfrey. I feel so much… easier now."

She smiles. "I'm glad I could help you. Now get out – I got a line of people waiting outside."

He gets up and leaves. The corridor outside feels little less oppressive than it last had, and Newt's shoulders slowly relax as he heads away. He notes with some interest that he walks a little faster now. Fascinating.

Theseus is in a meeting, so Newt sits to wait on the benches outside his office, taking out his wand again. The tip is a little singed from his previous backfires, but he'd stopped using magic before too bad damage had occurred. He still remembers that, at least – the way the spell just flipped and then his fingers were washed with licks of flames…

Healer Pomfrey had theorised it had something to do with his involvement with dragons. Normally back fires just exploded and knocked the caster back – that all your spells turned into fire was a little unusual.

For a moment Newt tries to remember, was there any particular moment with the dragons, when fire was…

But there is nothing there anymore.

Time passes quicker when you're not afraid, it seems, because it's no time at all when the door to Theseus' office opens and whole crowd of witches and wizards in uniform file out – some of them in ICW uniforms, others in uniforms from varying nations. They all look very grim and serious. Must have been an important meeting.

Newt waits for Theseus' adjutant to notice him and then hands her his release paper to take to his brother. "Please wait," she says, and carries the paper inside. It's only half a minute later she comes out again. "The General will see you now."

"Thank you," Newt says and gets up again.

Theseus has a almighty scowl on his face, Newt's release paper on his hand and maps all over the table. "Newt," he says. "It's done, then?"

"All done, except for the following check ups which I will have for two months," Newt says, walking over. "Healer Pomfrey was very optimistic about my recovery, I felt."

Theseus frowns at him a little and then looks at the paper again. Then he sets it aside. "Have you heard yet?" he then asks and motions at the maps. "The Muggle Allies have gone on offensive."

"They have?" Newt asks with a frown.

"They mean to push the Central Powers out of France," Theseus nods and then takes a Muggle newspaper from under the maps, showing it to him. "There was a big battle, east of Amiens – lot of Germans surrendered, took a big hit on their morale. This will probably affect things."

Newt frowns. He's been catching up with Graves' battles and Grindelwald's advancement – the German commander seemed to follow the Muggle side of the things fairly closely and often acted in conjunction, using the Muggle war to his advantage. If the Central Powers are forced to retreat…

"Any news on Grindelwald?" Newt asks seriously.

"Nothing yet," Theseus sighs. "From what we've seen, though, there's been reaction with the other German wizards – at least one war camp has been relocated back beyond the German boarder. Who knows what Grindelwald will do,  the man moves around like he has the power to apparate entire nations."

Theseus looks up at him. "Do you feel fit for duty?" he then asks.

"Yes," Newt says simply. "I do."

His brothers' eyebrows lift a little and he looks slightly surprised. "Not going to beg me this time?"

Newt smiles a little and looks down. "It's a little different now," he says and eyes the maps. "Don't get me wrong, I still want to help, and find Graves, but… I can think clearer now. And…" he trails off and ducks his head.

The realisation that he doesn't _care_ if Theseus lets him back in or not is quick and somehow unsurprising. Before, he'd been so desperate, so scared, unable to think past it – now he knows he could just go. He can just go. And he _will go_ if Theseus says no.

"It doesn't matter if you say no, now," Newt admits. "I'll go regardless."

"Now that's a little treasonous," Theseus says, arching his eyebrows at him. "I'm a general, you know, you should watch what you're saying."

"I'm officially discharged and unofficially a deserter," Newt points out and arches his eyebrows right back at him.

Theseus sighs and shakes his head. "This will take a while to get used to," he mutters and then takes out a paper, handing it over. "Here. Read it and if you agree, sign it."

Newt looks it over. It's new oaths for him, but they're not… the military oaths. He's not becoming a soldier. Rather, he'll be a consultant, hired personally by General Theseus Scamander.

It seems about right, so, Newt signs it and hands it over. The oaths settle on him like old set of clothes, familiar but a little different from the soldier's oaths he took before – there's more emphasis on secrecy.

"Now comes the question on what to do with you," Theseus says grimly. "I'll be honest with you, Newt, you're no exceptional soldier and never have been. Your greatest asset is that you're damn good with beasts and I don't know how much use that will be with hunting Grindelwald down. What I need is an investigator, someone to track him down."

Newt frowns. "I'm not half bad with research," he says slowly. "I could give it a shot, if you gave me what you have on him."

Theseus frowns, thinking about it. "Yes, that would be a way to go about it," he says and looks at him. "Alright. I'll give you access on everything we have on Grindelwald. If you come up with explanation as to how he's getting his Inferi around so damn fast without anyone seeing him –"

"Oh, but," Newt says, blinking. "He's flying, isn't he?"

"Well, obviously he's flying, everyone is flying, but how is he flying his entire armada of Inferi with him, that's the question," Theseus says, rolling his eyes.

"He's just flying them _with him_ ," Newt says. "Undetectable expansion charms, you know."

Theseus sighs impatiently. "Yes, but _how_? I rather doubt he's just got them in his saddlebags."

"Why not? You could fit a lot of set of expanded saddle bags."

"Because, dear brother, that would be beneath him," Theseus says slowly. "What kind of famous and hallowed commander would he be if he flew around on a Hippogriff or a Thestral, his armies stashed away in his pockets like so much lint? Why do you think we build this place?" He motions around them. "It wasn't because we _needed_ it. It was for appearances, brother, and troop morale. And you can be damn sure he's concerned with them too."

"Oh," Newt says and frowns. He never did get hang of that stuff, did he? And it feels even less important or impressive now, appearances and propaganda and all that.

Theseus shakes his head. "I'll write a slip for you to grand you access to the records," he says and sits down. "Try and think less like a vagabond and more like someone who cares about their appearances. Grindelwald will be concerned with the image he's presenting, he will want to appear _great_."

* * *

 

"During our first discussion you told me, quite honestly, that you thought I'd win if I didn't use the Inferi," Grindelwald says while reading through some reports – all in German and in code, of course. "What did you mean by that?"

"Exactly what I said. You'll never win, using Inferi," Graves says. He's standing by the door, waiting – he's mostly waiting on Grindelwald now, waiting for the man to think of some menial task for him to perform. He's all but the German commander's manservant now.

"The Inferi tactics have proven very successful," Grindelwald says and looks at him. "And on the long run quite bit cheaper than using living soldiers, I might add. And it's the cost of a battle that determines the success – even when I lose, I lose less than those that win."

"Maybe. But it's not about the cost. It's sentiment," Graves says, meeting the man's eyes without hint of humility. "Eventually you'll run out of mass graves to dig up, and you'll have to go after cemeteries and that will lose the war for you."

"Oh, but people are getting over their sensibilities," Grindelwald says dismissively. "By that point it will hardly matter."

"Tell me, when your own soldiers die, do you use their bodies?" Graves asks. Grindelwald frowns at that. "Exactly. It's fine when they're people no one knows – but eventually you will have to resort to other resources for your bodies. Battle field fallen, perhaps?"

The German Commander hums low in his throat and leans back in his chair. "You think opposition outrage at my tactics will eventually be my doom?" he asks, amused. "As I said, my means are cheap, and even if I have to resort to grave robbing on smaller individual scale, it hardly matters. People will still die and I will still have _resources_. And if I eventually do start capturing the fallen off battlefield, that only means that my armies will increase while my enemies' lessen. And their fallen feed my army."

"It would – but your army has restrictions," Graves points out. "You're limited in how many Inferi you can raise. The only reason you aren't overtaken by sheer numbers on every battle is that most of your attacks rely on surprise and stealth and no one has the time to prepare. If they ever figure out how to track you –"

"They will not," Grindelwald says grimly.

Graves says nothing but he smiles at the man's obvious irritation. Hit a sore point there, didn't he. "Relying on Inferi will lose you the war," he says. "And I think you know it."

"It would not if I could surpass that limit," the commander mutters and then looks down at the report. "There is a way to do it, you know. A way to raise as many Inferi as you could possibly want. And I'm almost _there_. Once I have it…"

He doesn't have it now, though, whatever it is Graves muses. "And then what?" Graves asks. "You over run the Western Front with dead soldiers?"

"Then, my dear Percival, then I will fight a war unlike any you've seen," Grindelwald smiles darkly. "Not one for scraps or glory or confusion like this one – I will fight it for freedom."

Graves frowns. "Against Nomajes," he guesses.

"Against centuries of self suppression, shame and fear," Grindelwald answers and stands up. "Don't you think it's wrong? The way we cover in the shadows? We have power, we have might, and yet we've cultivated this mentality of fright for so long we can hardly surpass it. Even now, even this war, is about it. Don't you agree?"

Graves says nothing – it's another rant. And of course, Grindelwald goes on without any prompting. "Even now the International Confederation of Wizards doesn't fight for defence, they don't fight for land, they don't even fight for _ideals_. They fight for secrecy. They joined this war and became a key figure in it because they wanted to _cover it up_ – don't you think that is hilarious?" the man asks and lets out a derisive laugh. "They're their own side now, a true key figure, when at start they wanted only to moderate. Well, now they're moderating the whole war. And badly at that."

Graves says nothing and Grindelwald scoffs at him. "And your people, the _MACUSA_. Rappaport's law is quite thing, isn't it? You're so scared you can barely breathe in the Muggle's direction, over the sea. You prohibit _tradition_ , you strangle your own history – tell me, have you _ever_ worn a traditional set of robes?"

"Can't say I've ever wanted to," Graves says tightly. "They're ludicrous and impractical and I don't see why anyone would ever want to wear them."

That brings the man's rant up short and he looks at him in astonishment. Graves arches his eyebrows. "What, do you think I should feel oppressed?" he asks. "There is no ban on robes in United States – they're just not practical. All they mean is that you have to change into something else when you want to go out."

"Well you shouldn't have to change," Grindelwald says, but he's frowning at him now.

"And I don't – because I don't wear robes by choice," Graves rolls his eyes. "They're just waste of time. And besides, doesn't the hem just get in your way?"

Grindelwald scowls and then waves a dismissive hand. "You're obviously going to be no fun today, Percival. Get out."

"Gladly," Graves says and retreats. On the hall he takes a breath and releases it slowly and then, once he feels a little steadier, he heads away, chains clinking.

He really needs to get out of here. He's been here way too long now.

Grindelwald is starting to make entirely too much _sense_ now.


	9. Chapter 9

Idly Newt sketches designs into his new notebook. It had started out as a diary of his memories but eventually it had evolved – or rather, de-evolved – into a messy catch-all-net for all of his thoughts. It was fascinating, in a scientific way, how different his mind was now. He had his old notebooks, and comparing his new note taking methods to the older ones was rather enlightening.

Somehow, he was both more orderly and more frivolous before. He used to write long, in-depth notes on the smallest thing, most of them utterly uninteresting except to select specialists – his notes on dragon teeth are really something. Now, he's more likely to try and capture the essential, rather than the detail – though order tends to get sacrificed to get there.

Currently his notebook was the recipient of theories about how to stretch the limits of Undetectable Expansion Charms. With suitably sturdy, yet flexible container, you could do some incredible things, he thinks. Seems like there is a reason why trunk makes prefer leather draping over fabric one.

"Newt Scamander?" a voice asks and he looks up. There's a witch standing over him, with jewelled turban-like hair scarf and very imposing sort of posture. She's wearing a familiar dark uniform. "Are you Newt Scamander, the one who tracked down Grindelwald's blimp?"

American accent.

"Zeppelin," Newt answers, looking past the woman and at the crowd of people in the room – lieutenants and captains and commanders from all of ICW's own and allied military forces, milling about. "And tracked down is something of a misconception… but yes, I did."

"Captain Seraphina Picquery," the woman says and holds out her hand.

Newt looks at it, and then quickly sets his notebook and inkwell pen down before getting up to shake it. "Captain," he says, giving her a quick shake before withdrawing his hand. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Nothing you haven't already done. I just wanted to thank you," she says. "Percival is a friend of mine. I'll be glad to see him home."

"Who?" Newt asks curiously.

"Percival," she answers and frowns. "Percival Graves."

"Oh – sorry. Of course," Newt says and gives her an awkward, feeling smile before looking away. "You'll be joining the ambush then?"

"Yes – me and my company, the Eighty-one-Twos. I'm taking over what's left of Percival's company too," the woman nods and looks him up and down. "I'm sorry – I was told you were Percival's friend and that's why you were doing this."

Newt frowns a little. "I think I am his friend," he offers and turns his attention to his notebook. "Whether he considers me his, that's a different thing. It has been… a while."

Picquery frowns at him a little deeper and then shakes her head. "Well regardless, it's a good thing you did, finding that zeppelin. How did you do it?"

Newt fiddles with his notebook and then opens it, leafing through the papers. "Since it was obvious Grindelwald was flying around somehow, and moving his troops with him – and that he'd hardly use a regular mount to do it – I attempted to calculate flight patters between his attacks. Assuming that he is present in every one – and the Inferi indicate he is – then his method of transport is unusually slow."

"We thought the same," Picquery comments. "We just assumed that he calculated his attacks well."

"Maybe," Newt allows and shows her the sketches he made of Grindelwald's movements. "But there are incidents of two, even three waves of attacks, taking place in close to each other, but apart time wise. Now it might just be that he calculates his attacks well, true, but there is _always_ similar delay. Also, lack of beasts meant that it might be a vehicle instead, and I rather doubt he'd use an aeroplane, so…"

Picquery nods slowly. "But why a zeppelin?" she asks. "Why a _nomaj_ vehicle at all? What we know about Grindelwald is that he has issues with nomajes – that he's using one of their airships…"

"Have you ever seen one?" Newt asks curiously.

"Once, from afar," she admits and frowns. "They're rather extravagant."

"Very extravagant – and rather impressive when you're standing directly below one," Newt says, and smiles faintly. "And none of that compares to being _on board one_."

"You've been on one?" Picquery asks somewhat incredulously.

"After I thought it might be what Grindelwald is using, I found out a muggle company that offered dirigible rides for paying customers in Paris," Newt admits and smiles. "It's really quite something."

She stares at him and then shakes her head. "Right. And how did you actually find the thing? It has to be invisible at least or we would've seen it by now?"

"It most likely is, yes. It was really by accident – it was because of this, actually," he motions his notebook and the flight patterns he'd drawn there. "It started to become a map, you see."

"I don't follow," Picquery frowns.

"You can't make maps of unplottable things," Newt explains with a smile and looks down at his notes. Bit of a mess – all his notes are now – but the essential is all there, and understandable enough. "And once you know something is unplottable, the matter of finding it is not about looking for where it might be but rather where it isn't."

The witch gives him an strange look and then they both look up as the door to the office opens and the generals step in, making everyone stand in attention. "May I have everyone's attention please?" Theseus calls out, wand on his throat amplifying his voice. "We have his location now and time is of the essence. Chances are we'll only get one shot at this, so listen closely – we have to make this one count."

And so, the most important briefing of the war begins.

* * *

 

Graves is working with laundry, sorting through a small mountain uniforms and socks and underclothes with the pathetic inmate wand, when the first explosion rocks the room around him. At first he's not even sure what it is – it's so utterly unexpected. He almost rationalises it as a storm maybe, a strong gust of wind, or a clap of lightning but of course, none of those things can actually effect the airship's interior, the charms on the place are too good for that.

Then his mind catches up with him and he's lucky he's split of a second faster on the uptake than the German wizard standing by guarding him. While his guard blinks at the ceiling in bewildered surprise, Graves drops the useless wand throws out both hands. Wandless and still shackled at ankles, magic is illusive little thing on his fingertips but he has just enough feel of it now to actually make an impact.

And the impact is strong enough to throw his guard's head back and crash it against the metal wall behind him. As alarm bells start sounding through out the airship and people start shouting outside the door, Graves watches his guard slump to the floor, unconscious.

He doesn't stay merely unconscious for long.

After getting the man's wand, Graves attempts to open the shackles still around his ankles, using every spell he's heard _them_ use on him – but none of them work. Charmed so that the wearer can't do anything to them. Damnit. Well, at least now he has a fighting chance, though he won't be doing much running.

And then there is another explosion, or rather a barrage of them. It's vaguely reminiscent of muggle shelling, and it _batters_ the airship heavily. Graves can feel the ship shift under it, the force of the continuous impacts actually forcing it to move.

Whoever is attacking the airship is not alone – there's multiple attackers. ICW?

Well, it doesn't matter – he doubts they care about him, when they have Grindelwald to catch. So, Gripping the stolen wand in hand, Graves whips it at the cellblock door and watches with some measure of satisfaction how it's blown off the hinges.

Time to get out of this fucking place.

* * *

 

Newt hangs back, gripping the hippogriff's feathers and staring, wide eyed, at the terrible display of force. He's never seen such number of wizards in one battle, even in the days of the Twenty-Thirds they hadn't amassed such forces. There's easily a thousand soldiers here, witches and wizards ICW and just about all of her allies – and there are number of individual ministry uniforms too. French, American, Belgian….

And they're all battering the zeppelin with spellfire so strongly that it's disillusionment charms didn't last two seconds under it. It's some new spell they're using, one Newt has never seen before – and yet is a war spell if he's ever seen one. It's hard to tell what the incantation on, everyone's shouting themselves breathless in casting it, but it definitely has the word _bomb_ in it.

The zeppelin _creaks_ under the force of it. They are actually doing it, they're doing it _well_ too, and -

Then hatches start opening along the zeppelin gondola. Newt can't see what's happening but someone must have looking glass on them because moment later Theseus' voice goes out. "SHIELDS!"

The shift is instant and smooth – the soldiers tasked with shielding their fellows go to the front, on bird or horse or broom, and start casting shields. Moment later, the all too recognisable tear of gunfire breaches the air and Newt can see the bullets making the shields flash.

There are Inferi at the windows, holding muggle machine guns.

The ICW lines shift, the attackers moving into different formation, and then the spellfire continues. In the mean while, Newt can see shadows of people above, nearly hidden in the clouds – and moment later, the top of the zeppelin is hit with the first potion phials. There are couple of flashes of light, but while those do damage enough, it's the acid phials that do the most.

Squeezing the hippogriff's feathers a little tighter, Newt watches as the front of the zeppelin starts dipping downward. At this rate, Graves…

Hatches are drown open in the gondola, and then enemy forces begin streaming out – witches and wizards on horseback, two to a beast. The battle turns into a complete disarray a moment later, wings and feathers and spellfire everywhere, and Newt thinks – he remembers something like this from the time of the Twenty-Thirds…

But that doesn't matter.

Making use of the ensuing chaos, Newt encourages the hippogriff down. "There, darling, take me to the hatch," he urges and while the battle in the air truly begins, he dives inside.

* * *

 

Graves whips out his stolen wand and sends another soldier tumbling back. There is something happening outside – a battle, probably, seeing that the bombardment had ended – but the zeppelin is in bad shape, tipping to the side. It adds to the chaos and is working to his advantage but damn – he'd really like to have his legs free now.

"Now, where might you be going?"

Graves freezes and then turns. Grindelwald is striding towards him, a heavily medalled military coat thrown somewhat dramatically over his shoulders and grim smile on his face.

"I thought I'd take a walk," Graves says, tightening his grip on the wand. It's not his own, doesn't work as his own would, but if he's quick, if he acts just fast enough –

"Oh, Percival," Grindelwald says and suddenly Graves is frozen, unable to lift his hand, the wand still clenched in his fingers but _unmoving_. "I am going to miss our little talks," the German says, coming closer. "You've been a delight and I do enjoy the way your mind works."

"If you're going to kill me, please, just do it," Graves grinds out. "Spare me another fucking _sermon_."

"You enjoyed my sermons, don't try lie now. You've learned so much from me," Grindelwald says and stands in front of him, watching him struggle. "And I'm not going to kill you, my dear Percival – it would be such a shame to lose you."

Graves inhales sharply when the man goes for his pocket, but it's not a wand he draws, but something silver and shiny. "But I am going to miss our talks," Grindelwald says almost wistfully and he runs his hand over Graves' hair as he winds the thing around his neck. "Now, do take care of this for me. I would trust very few with it…" he runs his hands over Graves' cheeks and smiles before pressing his hand on the thing, now resting against Graves' chest. "But you're a special man, Percival. I think you'll know what to do with it."

Graves stares at him, not sure if he's terrified or something else, something oh so much worse, and Grindelwald smiles like he knows. "Give my best to the ICW," the man says and then he's walking away, leaving Graves struggling against the invisible binds.

The airship groans around him, metal grinding shrilly, and then he's free, almost falling to his knees as the floor tips under him. Gasping for breath Graves looks down at his chest. The silver glints at him like edge of a knife and he shudders.

Around him, the air shrieks as they start sounding the evacuation – and then he all but goes deaf as incredible, overwhelming _roar_ rocks the floor from under him.

Shaking, Graves shoves the medallion under his shirt and then gets back to his feet. The airship will be on fire now – time to get out.

* * *

 

"Graves!" Newt shouts, flashing his wand at the smoke suddenly covering the expanded corridors, throwing it back. "Graves, can you hear me!"

No answer. The few soldiers he's seen so far have been people either running away or apparating out – the Zeppelin is sinking now, held aloft only by whatever floatation charms had been placed on it, and they're probably not enough to keep it in air for long. Everyone is evacuating – except him.

"Graves!" Newt shouts, half coughing the word out, and pushes the smoke back. The thought that maybe Graves is dead, or just not here rear's it's head just for a moment and then he ignores it – worrying doesn't help. "Graves, are you in here! Answer me!"

There is another explosion above – more gas going up, probably, and the floor suddenly angles down. Newt scrambles to hold onto something, but the floor is bare and the walls are smooth – he slides down onto his side and then into a near free fall.

The impact of hitting the end of the corridor knocks all the breath out of him, and gasping for breath Newt quickly casts cushion charms, even if they will make him feel bouncy – better that than being knocked out.

"What in the blazes –"

The voice is familiar, if rougher than he remembers, and Newt looks up hopefully. There is Graves, also fallen over, dressed into a pair of slacks and, with several months worth of beard on his cheeks. "Graves!" Newt breathes and quickly scrambles to his feet, as much as he can anyway with no vertical surface in sight.

" _Newt_?" Graves asks with disbelief.

"Hi," Newt answers and scrambles over to him. "Oh, Merlin, you're alright – we need to get out of here."

Graves stares at him, his eyes a little wide, as he supports his elbow against the floor. "You – you _left_ – "

"I came back," Newt says and offers awkward, sheepish smile. "I'm sorry – this really isn't the time to – we need to get out of here. Are you alright?"

"Yes, fine – I can't apparate, though," Graves says, still staring at him even as he motions down to his legs, the heavy shackles around his ankles, the chain attached between. "Or run for that matter. Can you get these open?"

"I'll try," Newt says, but before he can the zeppelin just _drops_ under them. "No time – can I sidealong you?!" Newt shouts as the noise climbs from loud to utterly unbearable.

"Do it!" Graves shouts back and Newt throws himself at him, clasping the man around the shoulders. Graves' hands grip the back of his coat and then Newt _twists_ , thinking of the base they'd set, a small city of tents in the outskirts of their planned battle front.

They fall and _turn_ and then they crash onto the ground. Newt feels the twinge of splinching – lost a toe, maybe two, he thinks wildly and then looks at Graves who's knocked onto the ground below him, gasping for breath, obviously in pain. "Are you alright – did I splinch you?" Newt asks quickly, backing away and checking the man over in alarm.

"I'm just – give me a moment," Graves says and draws a steadying breath. "Nothing feels splinched but I think I might've broke my ankle," he says then and draws another deeper breath. "Newt –" he says and then looks up and stops, his eyes widening.

Newt follows his gaze. The magnificent zeppelin from before is now even more impressive fireball, almost too big to be _comprehensible,_ that lights the whole sky above them, casting shadows and highlights on the clouds above and the trees and fields below. As they watch it sinks and then, in crash that echoes through the air, it collides with the ground and somewhere inside there must still be some gas left because, even after all the explosions, it still manages another.

The pillar of smoke that rises from the destruction, it… Newt frowns, trying to remember, but it's gone. Something from Camp Iron Gut probably.

"Shit," Graves murmurs faintly.

"Are you alright?" Newt asks, turning to him and looking him over again. Aside from the beard and slight look of tight exhaustion, he doesn't look like he's been maltreated, there are no visible bruises or cuts, he doesn't seem to be bleeding.

Graves shakes his head and looks at him. "Fine," he says and shifts, looking around them. Newt does the same. Everyone in the camp is staring at the destruction, not particularly caring about them at all. "How did you find the thing? Grindelwald had that thing warded to hell and back."

"Flight speed and patterns… and luck," Newt admits and looks down. "Your ankle…"

"It can wait," Graves grunts and shifts to sit up. "Who's the man in charge here?"

"Theseus – General Scamander, that is, but he's up there," Newt says, pointing at the air above the massive pillar of smoke. "Why?"

"Grindelwald has spend the last several months doing nothing but fucking serenading me with all of his plans and ideals," Graves scoffs. "I have one hell of a report to make."

"Right, of course," Newt agrees and moves to get up. "Serenading," he then repeats, making a face.

Graves arches his eyebrows at him and then looks him over. "Civilian clothing," he comments.

"Civilian consultant," Newt shrugs. "According to Theseus I make a terrible soldier. And I don't think he wanted to chance me walking off again."

"You don't say," Graves says, his voice somewhat flat, and Newt ducks his head. "You came back though. I honestly didn't think you even _could_."

"Yeah, well, me neither," Newt murmurs, and glances up at him, smiling. "There were incentives."

Graves stares at him for a moment and then reaches out to touch his cheek, his fingers shockingly cold against Newt's suddenly hot face. "You're smiling," the man says and frowns, running his thumb over Newt's lower lip.

Newt smiles a little wider, helpless and embarrassed. "I'm happy to see you?" he offers, and his voice is a little breathy.

"You never smile," Graves says and scowls, his fingers shifting, turning his face slightly to the side. "Never at me."

"It's… it's been a while," Newt says, swallowing, watching him with slightly wider eyes – suddenly realising that Graves' face is still tense and alert and uneasy. "Things have…. changed, I suppose," he says and clears his throat, suddenly awkward. "We, ah… we should get you to the healers while wait on the general – also I think I splinched couple toes off, so…"

Graves stares at him, still scowling at him. "Yeah, okay," he says and shakes his head. "Help me up, will you?"

Newt does, rising to his feet and then helping Graves up to his one good foot, wrapping the man's arm over his shoulders while he winds his own around his back. "Do you think they caught him?" Newt asks, nodding at the distant pillar of smoke.

Graves looks up and his eyes are dark. "No," he says and nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh this story’s quality’s taken an unfortunate dip as I’ve gotten sick. Fuck flu season. One more chapter and maybe epilogue and I’m throuuugh…


	10. Chapter 10

Graves stares at Newt, trying to put a finger on the changes. He's known people who got medical obliviations before – in the war, it happened fairly often, really. It is the easiest way to go about healing things like spellshock – just remove the underlying cause and let the mind heal itself over the missing parts. The changes it results were usually minor…

But Newt is _different_ now.

"Well, I guess this works," Newt muses, more to himself than to Graves – which considering that Graves had been silently staring at him for better part of an hour now, is not surprising. The Brit is looking over a newspaper – French one. Normally Graves couldn't have read it, but it was special edition – the article in front flashed between languages.

"GRINDELWALD MEANS TO EXPOSE MAGIC".

It isn't even propaganda – just the truth, with little embellishments. Graves' own testimony had made it possible. Now even people who had previously supported Grindelwald are turning their back on the German cause, and it is only matter of time that Germany itself will either have to denounce Grindelwald, or face the consequences of being the nation who supports the end of the world as they knew it.

In the face of increasing international critique, Graves' was pretty sure it was the former they'd choose. And with the best German commander out of the picture – because despite what Grindelwald had said, he couldn't really work without his country's support – Germany would eventually fall.

The war, Graves knew, was about change very quickly.

"Do you think this will lead to peace?" Newt asks, turning to him hopefully. There's a lightness about him now, a bright look about his eyes that wasn't there before. The shadows Graves knew so well are gone. It's not a bad look, really, Newt looks lighter now, the world no longer pressing down on him and strangling him.

And yet.

Newt waits for an answer and then looks away, awkward – well at least that's the same. He fiddles with the news paper and sets it down and for a moment he looks at nothing, thinking.

"If you want me to go," Newt says finally, not meeting. "All you have to do is say. I don't mean to be a bother."

Graves looks down, at his hands. Before, Newt hadn't cared one way or the other. Before it wasn't Newt who did things, it wasn't Newt who _was_ things. If he was a bother it was because people forced him to be that. Because people made decisions for him. That, he thinks, is the biggest difference.

This Newt isn't at the mercy of others, but a man in full control of his own destiny. This Newt braved a burning, collapsing zeppelin by his own choice, and judging by what Graves had seen, he showed no hesitation.

"Why did you come after me?" Graves finally speaks and Newt jumps a little, turning to him

"You're my friend?" the Brit offers, sounding bewildered.

Graves silently shakes his head at that.

"Well I still consider you my friend," Newt says and looks away. "Or I consider me yours at any rate. And, while I can't remember it anymore, I know you got me out of Camp Iron Gut. I know you looked after me. It would've been callous of me not to try to help you in turn."

Graves lifts his head a little and frowns. "Newt," he says slowly, something dawning on him. "Do you remember what we did?"

Newt hesitates, not meeting his eyes, fiddling with his fingers. Then he shakes his head. "I wrote about it, though," he says and smiles at nothing. "I have about twenty letters I wrote to you in fits of depression that I never sent – some of them fairly descriptive.

Smiles come so easy to him now.

"You don't remember it. You don't remember most of Iron Gut – you probably don't remember that much about me either," Graves says darkly. "Why did you come after me?"

Newt sighs and glances at him. "Because at one point you were all I had left. I can't remember it but I can still appreciate the importance. And I don't need to remember the friendship to still feel it," he says. "I know I'm different, and I'm sorry if it makes you uneasy – but I am not sorry for the change."

Graves stares at him and he can't quite put a finger on what he feels. A strange sort of indignation over the version of this man he'd known – and understanding. If it was him in Newt's shoes, with all that pressing down on him, he would've been glad to be rid of it too. And it's hard to say that the change isn't an improvement.

He seems older, with this new confidence.

"Besides," Newt says, looking at him – or rather his hands. "The reason why you're so mad at me about this is because it's easier that way – it's distracting you."

"Excuse me?" Graves asks in growl.

"You've spent months in captivity," Newt says simply. "Being mad at me for changing is easier than thinking about that, I suppose."

Graves stares at him, oddly outraged. He's right, of course he's right, but he'd never expect Newt of all people to say it. Newt wouldn't have previously – before whatever Newt observed he kept damn well to himself.

Newt smiles and shakes his head. "Alright," he says and stands up. "I'm sorry, Graves, I didn't mean to make you mad. I'm glad you're safe now. I'll leave you be."

Graves gets up before he can take more than couple of steps and Newt hesitates, glancing at him hesitantly as Graves strides over. He lets out a surprised yelp as he's shoved against the door and then goes completely still as Graves kisses him.

Newt's lips are chapped and a little rough, but still hot – still ridiculously full against his own. They part in gasp and Graves drinks it in, worrying on that full lower lip, all but biting it. But it's different too – this time Newt doesn't falter, doesn't hesitate, doesn't struggle.

He leans into it and kisses him back right away. His hands come to brace Graves' neck and something about it feels – different. Off, even.

Graves pulls back and frowns, staring at him. Newt blinks his eyes open and then looks at him, eyebrows slightly arched. Then he too frowns, looking at him, his gaze flicking from eye to eye and he murmurs, "Oh," and tilts his head.

Then, before Graves can formulate what he's actually thinking, the strangeness he can't put a finger on, Newt takes his face between his hands and kisses him, soft and easy and confident. And maybe that's the difference – that's _the_ difference in Newt.

He's not afraid anymore.

Graves inhales sharply against that confident kiss and Newt pushes against him, giving more than taking, offering rather than demanding, and it's so _easy_ to wrap his arms around the man, to kiss back. Newt hums against him, pleased, and runs his hand through his too long hair, and Graves shudders, suddenly feeling drunk with it.

Newt is grinning against his mouth, almost laughing. "Beard," he explains to Graves' inquisitive hum and then, like a cat, rubs his cheek against Graves', the rasp of hairs against freckled skin making him laugh again

"I could shave," Graves murmurs, slightly embarrassed – he should've shaved, and trimmed his hair. He's not exactly presenting the best image of himself right now.

"If you'd like," Newt allows and leans back a little. The smile on his face is luminous and amused and so simple. "I'd really prefer if you just kissed me instead, though."

Graves kisses him. Newt's smile melts into the kiss and for a long while they just lean against the door, unhurried in that uncomplicated pleasure. Graves knows – recalls from time long before the war – that this is how it should be, but it feels so alien, for it to be so simple. It's heady feeling, to just have something and enjoy it without having to struggle for it.

Newt shifts against him, languid, and pulls back. He runs his hand over Graves' cheek and then down to his chest and as they both watch, he starts undoing the buttons of the coat Graves had borrowed. Neither say anything as the coat falls to the floor, or when the shirt underneath it follows it. Newt's hands are hot and firm and he hums, not quite as happy now, at the feel of his ribs.

"Hey, at least I wasn't tortured," Graves says.

The look Newt gives him tells him just how much he appreciates that sentiment. Then Newt kisses him again and that's all's said about that. Slow and easy, they strip, letting their clothes fall onto the floor, piece by piece, until finally they're leaning together completely bare.

Newt has changed too. He hasn't quite put on weight, but the wiry tightness of his body has softened somewhat, the sharp angles eased into smoother plains. Graves touches him and then has to keep on touching him – he still runs so hot. He's also more tanned in places he wasn't before. Tan lines have softened and the one around his neck goes lower, down to his chest – he's spent time in the sun with his shirt unbuttoned, and just imagining it makes Graves' mouth water.

Newt sighs sweetly when Graves licks at the line. "Bed," he murmurs, smile in his tone, and Graves runs his hands over the sides of the man's waist, down the dip of there and onto his hips. Still slim and a bit bony, but… softer.

"Yeah," Graves murmurs, but it's another good five minutes of kissing before they manage it. Graves again goes down first, but it's with purpose – and so is Newt's move, when he sits astride his lap.

"You sure?" Graves murmurs, running his hands greedily down his back.

"Yeah," Newt says, smiling down at him with light in his eyes. "You're going to have to show me how, though."

"I can definitely do that," Graves murmurs, staring at him. The startled look of shock and pleasure from before had been a thing to behold, but this… Newt is so at ease, so completely certain. And there's definitely something to be said about a man who knows what he wants.

Graves shifts back on the bed, bringing Newt with him. Then he reaches out his hand, and wandlessly summons Newt's wand in his hand. It feels foreign in his finger, the wood worn and battered, with clearly visible seam separating the handle from the shaft. Graves frowns at it and then Newt takes his hand, takes the wand from it and casts a silent spell.

Graves spreads his oil slick fingers and then looks up at Newt. "This will feel a little strange."

"Hmm," Newt answers and shifts on him, leaning down a little. "I might've done it to myself, time or two," he admits and grins at him. "I'm curious how different it will be, with you doing it instead."

Graves shudders a little at that, and then runs his clean hand over Newt's back, to his backside. Newt makes a noise, wonderful little hum, as he spreads his cheeks apart and that has nothing compared to what he sounds like when Graves touches him where the heat is greatest. And it really is – the warmth of Newt's skin has nothing on this.

"Oh," Newt breathes and leans his head back a little. "O-oh," he then sighs as Graves leans up to mouth at the line of his throat while pushing his finger in deeper, slowly easing him open. Newt's scorching hot _vice_ around his fingers and already Graves feels a little like he's drowning in it.

And then Newt shifts back, pushing against his hand, and Graves is suddenly aware of the fact that he's hard, pressed against Newt's stomach, and it's almost unbearable, how much he wants to fuck this man.

"Newt," Graves growls and shifts his hand, adding another finger. Newt moans above him, his hips jerking. "Fuck – "

It's torture, glorious hot torture, to prepare Newt. Newt squirms above him, taking pleasure in every moment of it without hint of shame and it's intoxicating, watching him. "Graves," the Brit finally gasps. "Come on, I want – oh –"

Graves curses under his breath and then pulls his fingers out. "F-fuck – slick me up," he gasps even as he pushes Newt back a little, to sit up rather than lie on top of him.

Newt shakes his head blearily and then searches his wand among the bed sheets, casting the spell on his hand before letting the wand drop. His hips are still shifting into Graves' hand, fingertips still ad the edge of his entrance, and he whines needily as he takes Graves in hand. And, fuck, that's nice – but with better things ahead Graves bites back the groan and instead shifts where he lies so that Newt has better access to him.

"At your pace," he says to Newt who's hesitating. "Just hold me up and push down."

"Yes, I rather figured that part out," Newt says with a breathless laugh and then he positions himself above him. Graves grits his teeth because, fuck, at this angle he can see _everything_. Newt seems to know it too because he's grinning with mischievous pleasure, leaning back a little as if to show more – definitely to show more – and then he lowers himself.

Newt's pace isn't quite as slow and sweet as Graves had been expecting though. He takes a moment to get used to it, shifting back and forth torturously until he's certain he can take it. Then he starts to fucking _experiment_.

"Shit," Graves gasps, staring at him as the younger man grinds down on him almost thoughtfully, looking for the right angle. "Newt – fuck –"

"Mmm," Newt answers, shifting his posture a little and grinding down again and apparently that's not the right angle either because he shifts again and repeats the process. And Graves is all for experimentation, always good to figure out what you like, but Newt's doing it on his _cock_. And it's just on the wrong side of teasing.

"Fuck, can't you just –" Graves hisses and throws his head back as Newt grinds down again, all the way down to the base and shit that is good, he could do that, a lot, right now – and of course that's when Newt just gets off. "Newt, for fuck's sake!"

"Sorry, sorry," Newt says and he doesn't sound sorry at all – and then Graves sees what he's doing and okay, he's not sorry either. Newt turns backwards, facing his feet instead, and then he just _drops down_ and Graves has front row seat on all of it "Oh," Newt breathes, and his back arches. "Oh, that's it, oh, that's _good_ – "

"Finally," Graves hisses, desperately staring at the freckles on his shoulders, the intricate tattoo of a hippogriff on his shoulder blade, and grips his slim hips. Newt moans and hangs his head, his back arching, the muscles of his back contracting and then he starts to, finally, move.

And it's most definitely not a slow and sweet pace either. Newt is done with giving it seems – now he's taking and he's taking it at his terms, as hard as he likes. Graves curses at him and fucks up into him thought mostly he's just hanging on for dear life. He'd always known there was a mad sort of energy to this man – but now it's all unleashed and it's a _lot of energy_ it turns out.

Newt shudders and gasps and comes, is body tightening sharply around Graves. Graves gasps at the feel of it, head thrown back. "Newt," he says, fingers curling around the man's hips, he's probably leaving bruises. "Newt, I'm so close – "

And Newt, the absolute bastard, gets off him, a torturous drag that leaves Graves hard and cold and absolutely furious. Newt pants for breath and looks back at him over his shoulder and then smiles. "Come on," he says.

Then he gets down on knees and elbows, all but presenting himself in all of his wet, slick glory. And alright, okay – the man is possibly trying to kill him now. After months with damn Grindelwald, Newt Scamander is going to kill him with his fucking _ass_.

Newt moans sweetly and rests his head on the mattress as Graves thrusts back into that glorious heat and damn. There are probably worse ways to go than this.

* * *

 

Newt stares at the wall, eyes low lidded and body humming with deep satisfaction. He will feel the ache of it for a while, probably, it still burns a little and he can still feel Graves, deep inside… but he can't say he exactly minds. It would give him something to keep.

Behind him, Graves is putting his clothes on, the bed shifting as he moves.

"Your turn to run away, then?" Newt asks and closes his eyes.

"You remember that?" Graves asks, little derisive again.

"No, but I wrote about it. I'm sorry about that, by the way."

"Hm," Graves answers and for a moment he's still. "They offered me honourable discharge," he then says. "Probably because they think I'm compromised now."

Newt hums in answer and peeks one eye open, glancing back at him. In the darkness, Graves' hair seems darker still, the beard on his cheeks all but pitch black. He looks severe, with deep shadows hiding his eyes. "You're going to take it, then?"

"… yes, I think I am," Graves agrees and turns to him. "Do you know why we're fighting anyway? Do you know what the actual cause for this war is?"

Newt looks away. "Do wars have cause?" he asks quietly. "From what I understand, the muggles are fighting mostly because _they're fighting_ and at this point they don't know how to stop because no one wants to lose. And we're fighting in part because they are."

Graves is quiet for a moment. "We're fighting because we're afraid," he then says and looks down to pull his boots on. "Because we fear being killed by nomajes, because we're afraid of being exposed. And then that evolved into being afraid of each other. Lashing out – that's all it is. Everyone lashing out at everyone else, because we're all scared."

Newt looks at him with a frown. "You don't seem particularly scared."

Graves hands his head and then looks at him. "Because I'm not. I volunteered, remember?" he says.

Something about the way he says that makes Newt's heart skip a beat, leaves him cold. Slowly, Newt sits up in the bed and looks at him. "You know, it's not your fault – whatever happened on that zeppelin," he says slowly. "None of it's your fault."

Graves barks out a mirthless, harsh laugh. "Nothing happened, Newt," he says and looks away. "I wasn't hurt, I wasn't mistreated – the worse they did was feed me slightly too little and make me do fucking chores."

And yet you look like you've been whipped, Newt muses and leans in, wrapping an arm around Graves' tense back. "It's alright," he murmurs for the lack of anything better to say.

"Right, of course it is," Graves mutters and then shakes his head. He finishes pulling on his boots, checking the laces and then looking at Newt. "I'm heading back to the states as soon as I can."

Newt nods, leaning his chin on the man's shoulder. "I figured," he agrees quietly.

Graves eyes him, his eyes shadowed and dark in ways they weren't, before, not that Newt could remember anyway. "I suppose we won't see again," he says.

"Well, who knows," Newt shrugs and smiles faintly. "I got a taste of travelling, in my desertion. I think I might do some more of it," he admits. "I've even been studying expansion charms, to make myself an expanded suitcase – I actually got inspiration from Grindelwald's zeppelin."

Graves doesn't say anything and Newt squeezes his waist. "Maybe I'll visit you sometime," he offers. "I mean… if I'm welcome."

The American looks away. "Newt," he says and then sighs, running a hand over his eyes. "I don't know."

Newt looks down. Oh. "Alright," he says softly. "That's fine too."

"Grindelwald spun me around," Graves admits quietly. "It feels a bit like my head's not on straight anymore. I need to figure this out."

Newt nods silently and when Graves moves to stand up, he lets him. Lifting his legs under the covers, Newt leans his elbows on his knees and watches him pull his coat on. "I don't suppose letters would be welcome either," he comments.

Graves straightens the lapels of the coat and then looks down on him. "You're like a different person now, you know," he says, eyes flicking down along Newt's bare arms before he shakes his head. "You're so sure of yourself now. And you don't need me."

Newt smiles sadly. "That doesn't mean I don't want," he says softly. If anything, he wants him more now that his mind is clear and he actually _can_ want things for himself.

Graves sighs and then bends down. The kiss is slow and tender – and terribly final. "Goodbye Newt," Graves says and then Newt watches the man that in other circumstances could've been the love of his life… leave him behind.

* * *

 

Outside the warm intimacy of Newt's room Graves takes a breath, slow and steadying. Another thing to regret, he muses and looks down. And yet, he knows he will regret it infinitely more if he stays – stays and draws Newt with him into whatever grim future awaits him. It's better this way. It has to be.

Shaking his head, Graves digs through his pockets until he hits the edge of metal. It's cold and hard against his palm and glints sharp as knife's edge in the candle light. It's a promise and a threat all at once and he knows none of it's good. He should know better, really.

But Grindelwald was right. Graves had learned much from him. Too much, perhaps.

Lifting his chin a little, Graves undoes the clasp and then winds the pendant around his neck in quick, efficient moves. Then, the symbol of the Deathly Hallows hidden under his clothes, he turns and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's it. I might write a sequel to this one day but right now I am in desperate need of a break from this story. Thanks for reading and commenting, etc, hope you have a good one.


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